


Spoils of War

by Sereq_ieh_Dashret



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BDSM, Bisexual Characters, Bloodplay, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, Honor, Infinity Gems, Internalized Homophobia, Justice, LiveJournal Prompt, Loki Redemption, Mating Rituals, Multi, Negotiations, Pansexual Peter Quill, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Threesome, Propaganda, Redemption, Revenge, Ronan doesn't die, Ronan is Javert in Space, Ronan's confused boner, Shame, Slavery, Speciesism, Sub Ronan, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture, Trials, Violence, War Crimes, badass couples, demisexual ronan, emotionally repressed Ronan, influenced by Kemetic concepts, part-Kree Phil Coulson, saving the universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 63,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6677890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sereq_ieh_Dashret/pseuds/Sereq_ieh_Dashret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Ronan survives the Infinity Stone.<br/>The realization of what he has done hits him harder than any blow and the journey to atonement passes through giving himself up in servitude to the people who have brought him low. He doesn't imagine that living with a group of bounty hunters will challenge his ideas of freedom, justice and self so completely.<br/>Eventual explicit Ronan/StarLord/Gamora<br/>Originally posted on FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a response to a (quite old) prompt in the GotG Livejournal Kinkmeme.  
> The prompt was:  
> Ronan survives the end of the movie and ends up blasted half across the planet. The Guardians happen across him before the authorities do and as part of the "Some good/some bad" and judicious application of Kree cultural norms involving war prizes/loot, results in Ronan boarding the ship and being surprisingly docile/obedient which weirds out everyone but Gamora. Points if the cultural norms is kinda sorta untranslatable but could be interpreted as a shotgun wedding, sort of.  
> And Ronan is the bride.  
> Points++ if Ronan is naturally sub in bed, but this is one area he is reluctant to admit to/deal with. He has no problems scrubbing Peter's filthy ship by hand, but admitting he likes spreading his legs for another man or woman and being dominated in bed? Nope, cannot do it.
> 
> I am twisting the terms of the prompt a bit to allow for more angst and some flashback, but the result will be along those lines.
> 
> Will contain large amounts of angst, introspection, suicidal thoughts, honor/shame dichotomy, conversations about cultural norms and sexuality and, finally, redemption.  
> And did I mention smut? I should, because there will be.

The blinding purple light fades. Everything goes dark for a time he cannot quantify. Then there is pain.  
Ronan the Accuser realizes he is still alive, if barely. Everything hurts, he can barely breathe for the pain. He struggles to remember where he is, how did he get there and what has happened to him, but his mind draws a big, empty blank. He might have a bad concussion, among other things, he thinks feebly. He feels weak and helpless, and he doesn't like the feeling at all.  
Like a black, sticky tide, the memories from that afternoon, so many years before, try to invade his mind...  
... screams of terror and the bomb dropping through the ceiling, and more screams, of agony, as the temple burns and everyone inside burns with it, and falling,through the window and out of the inferno, and lying in the rubble for hours until the rescue teams find him, close enough to death that it would have been better for him to die...

"No!" he growls, pushing the memories to the back of his mind. He is the Accuser, he cannot afford to be weak, especially not now, when he doesn't even remember where he is, if he is in hostile territory or not. Panic has no place in his life.

Voices approach, footsteps crunch on the rubble. He knows those voices. The tattooed brute, the furry creature, Gamora, and the blue-eyed Terran, the one who called himself Star-Lord. There should be a plant-being with them, but his voice is missing.  
His memories are all confused, but one thing emerges with crystal clarity. They have defeated him. They are the reason why he is sprawling on a mass of rubble, in pain and confusion. They are coming to finish the job.  
Ronan welcomes it. Something in the back of his mind tells him that he doesn't want for his memories to reassert themselves, he doesn't want to know how did he end up like that.  
Better to finish it now, he thinks, but a Kree of his standing does not die sprawling on his back like an upturned turtle. He will die standing, and fighting back, if possible.  
Attempting to move floods him with exquisite agony, but somehow he manages to push himself on his knees first and then to his feet, supporting himself with a half-collapsed section of wall.  
Just in time, because the self-styled Guardians of the Galaxy have arrived, carrying weapons, and are none too happy to see him.

"You?! - screeches the furry creature, furious and incredulous - Why can't you just die, you crazy blue fucker!" he yells.  
He is carrying a gun almost as big as he is, and clearly illegal under several articles of both Kree and Xandarian law.  
Ronan remembers being shot by the creature with no ill effect, but now his armour is cracked and missing several pieces. If he takes a direct hit, he will go down.  
All the Guardians look ready to pounce on him, more or less, but he bets on the furry creature to be the one to actually do the deed.

He is wrong. The tattooed brute launches himself at him, bare-handed and full of rage to the point of incoherence.  
Ronan remembers fighting him before, how easily he could anticipate his movements, how his blows could not harm him.  
Good times. Now he can barely see the blows coming, and parrying hurts as much as taking the blows.  
The brute hits him on the jaw. He ends up sprawling again.  
Somehow he manages to get to his feet once more, but Drax, yes, his name is Drax, is upon him once more and this time when he goes down, he cannot muster the force to move again.  
This doesn't discourage Drax, though. The brute is more than happy to kick him when he's down.  
Typical, Ronan thinks, trying curl up and protect his face and middle. He should not expect non-Kree to have even a bit of honour.

"You have killed my wife! - Drax shouts - You have killed my daughter!"  
Ronan has killed so many people that he hardly remembers how many, let alone their names or their faces, but the man's claims ring a bell somewhere deep, or maybe it's an effect of the blows the man is raining upon him.  
It feels like there is not a single intact bone in his body, and he knows that even if he is trying to take the beating in silence, the cries and gasps he is hearing are his own.  
He knows he has wronged this man, wronged him grievously. This is a fitting punishment, but he wishes it will be over soon, because it is more than he can endure with dignity.

It is over in the end, but not because of his death.  
"Drax, stop! You are going to kill him like that!" a voice shouts. It is the Terran.  
He hears a commotion. Gamora must have joined his efforts to contain the brute.  
"That was my intention!" Drax shouts back.  
"Yeah, Quill, what's the deal? - the furry creature demands - Why don't we just off the genocidal nutcase and get on with it? We did want to kill him when we blasted him with the Infinity Stone."  
"That was an emergency! - Star-Lord replies - If we kill him now, like this, he becomes a martyr for all those other Kree nutjobs down in Hala! We'll never see the end of it." Star-Lord replies.  
Oh, Ronan thinks with dread, this Terran is too smart for anyone's good. Except that he has no one left back home who would exact revenge for his death, but this is something the Terran cannot know.

"But he'll be dead regardless!" the furry creature retorts, still quite upset.  
"Rocket, you asshat!" another voice yells. It is Gamora.  
"Dying is quick. - she explains - He'll suffer much more if he's stuck in a Xandarian prison." she adds.  
Cruel, cruel Gamora. She knows him well enough to know that this is what he fears most.  
There is a startled intake of breath, then a giggle. "I see your point. Fine. Let's haul him back to Xandar, then." Rocket agrees.  
"I am in agreement too." Drax's voice booms, a bit dejectedly.

Ronan tries to crawl away, to find a weapon and top himself before they can catch him, but Star-Lord's footsteps crunch on the rubble and then he is kicked on his back by a booted foot.  
"No crawling away, naughty boy!" the Terran exclaims. Ronan strives to look up. The bright light almost blinds him, creating a halo behind the Terran's head. Even so, he can tell Star-Lord is smiling. It is not a nice smile. Ronan dreads what is going to come next, but he cannot prevent it.  
"You are our prisoner now." Star-Lord declares and inside Ronan's head a voice starts going "No! No! No! No!".  
He has just been claimed as haaq by a non-Kree. Could there be a worse fate?  
"Don't worry, buddy. We'll take good care of you." Star-Lord adds, then his foot moves in an arc, landing squarely on his temple.  
Pain explodes in his head, then darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a lot of headcanon about the Kree/Xandar war and Kree culture.
> 
> In the comics, the Kree are often on the opposite side from the heroes, but they are not card-carrying villains, and Ronan himself has a few heroic moments and is a rather likable character if a bit stiff.
> 
> The movie has portrayed the whole thing as a black/white issue, but I don't like those, so I'm changing things a bit, making everything a bit grayer. So, expect the Xandarians to be a bit more morally questionable, and the Kree to be a bit less bloodthirsty.
> 
> I am making up Kree society based on Feudal Japanese, Spartan and Prussian societies, with a dash of Ancient Egypt thrown in for the concept of Pama (which is the Kree equivalent of Ma'at) and the penchant for smashing people's heads with a mace. Ceremonial maces were very important in Protodynastic Egypt and the so-called "smiting scene" is one of the longest-lived motifs in Ancient Egyptian art. It basically depicts the pharaoh smashing the enemy of Egypt with a big frikkin' mace. Rings a bell, doesn't it?
> 
> If the Kree come across as a bit stiff and archaic, very fond of traditions and rituals, I've done my job well.
> 
> Also, Ronan might end up looking a bit like Inspector Javert in space. That is also intentional and closer to his portrayal in the comics.
> 
> Warnings: PTDS, sucidal thoughts, past child neglect, mentions of extreme violence, mentions of war crimes.
> 
> Enjoy

It is not until he wakes up in a hospital in Xandar that the memories of what he has done in the last year or so (ever since that ridiculously offensive treaty has been signed) hit him like a spaceship set at ramming speed.

It is a good thing he is tied securely to the hospital bed, because his despair is so great at the realisation of how far he has strayed from the Path of Pama, that if he had had half a chance, he would have taken his own life.

It is a good thing that he cannot. As Gamora has said, dying would have been too great a mercy for him, even dying a criminal's death under the hammer of one of his fellow Accusers. His punishment is to live with the knowledge of what he has done, that he has failed his people on a cosmic level and forsaken any shred of honor he might have had.

He had set out on the path of rebellion to right a grievous wrong against his people, to punish the criminals who had killed so many innocents, and redress the imbalance in the conditions of the treaty between Kree and Xandar, but he has ended up being a worse criminal than the people he wanted to punish.

His original plan had been to obtain a suitable deterrent to force the Xandarians to renegotiate the parameters of the treaty, possibly capture the people responsible for the war crimes against the Kree and punish them. The latter he has managed to bring to partial fruition, but the former...  
He has ended up killing civilians by the drove, just to prove his loyalty to Thanos, he has nearly obliterated all life on Xandar, and finally he has delivered the ultimate military deterrent to Xandar and besmirched the image of his people, possibly beyond repair.

From the grave, his ancestors must be spitting on him. He is no longer worthy of the title of Accuser, he is not worthy of being a scion of his ancient House. He deserves to be haaq to a posse of interstellar criminals. He deserves all sorts of dishonour and abuse to be heaped upon him for a lifetime.  
The physical pain of his broken bones and wounded flesh is nothing to the agony of his spirit.

Days pass in isolation. The Xandarian medical personnel tends to his wounds, but make no attempts to talk to him. He wishes they did, if only to insult him and berate him. He spends his days fighting the painkillers, concentrating on the pain to stay awake, because as soon as the pain fades and he slips into sleep or unconsciousness, the flashbacks start. It is the hospital: the sounds, the smells, the helplessness and the sense of guilt are the same as they were last time, and they bring it all back.

His parents marry for love, a rare occurrence for two Kree of high standing. His father is a soldier, an officer in the army, wounded in action against the Xandarians, his mother the surgeon who had replaces his lost arm with cybernetics. They recklessly fall in love and, taken by passion like lower beings, conceive their first child, him, out of wedlock.

When they turn to the Ancients to have their match retrospectively approved, it turns out that they have an incredibly high level of genetic compatibility, and would have been likely paired up with each other if they had requested to be assigned a mate. So they marry, and even if it is a bit of a scandal at the time, when he is born, hale and healthy, it is completely forgotten by everyone. Well, almost everyone. His grandfather, a stern traditionalist and a soldier himself, is still none too happy about the match and always considers his mother a social climber and an easy woman, for she is not from one of the ancient Houses and he would have wanted a much more prestigious match for his son.

None of that matters though, because his parents love each other dearly and passionately. Kree are not normally a very fertile species, especially the Blue upper castes, but by the time he is six years old and ready for the induction ceremony for young cadets at the Great Temple of Pama on Hala, his three-year-old, incredibly loud, little brother Rory is there to wish him well, and his mother is heavy with a third child. She wishes to have a daughter, this time.

They are all standing there in the Temple, alongside the highest military and civilian authorities, and are listening to the High Priest as he speaks of Pama and of the virtues of justice, fairness, loyalty and mercy that descend from the Supreme Principle, when the Xandarian bombers makes a pass over the city.  
They drop a cluster of incendiary bombs over the Great Temple and go. The roof breaks, and the building starts to burn from the liquid fire released by the bombs. They are all burning.  
Some liquid drips on him. His clothes catch on fire immediately, and he screams and screams. The pain is unbelievable.  
His father is a great soldier, though, able to think on his feet even in the most dire situations. He grabs his son with his metal hand and throws him out of the window, down into the ornamental pond, quenching the fire.  
Ronan imagines that they would have all jumped after him, his father his mother and Rory, but the roof caves in, turning the Temple into a burning tomb.

All of this, he learns much later, in the hospital.  
Almost all his skin has been burned off and not even the strongest painkillers can ease his agony. Through the delirium, he hears one of the doctors suggest to his grandfather that it would be more merciful to put him to sleep, that even if the stem cell grafts take and his skin re-grows, he might become insane from the pain and the trauma.  
His grandfather tells that he doesn't care as long as he survives to adulthood to continue the family line. He says his father should have saved himself, instead of sacrificing his life for the whelp of a lowlife tart.  
He spends more than a year in hospital, but, slowly, his body heals. His skin grows back, a smooth, perfect blue like before. His hair unfortunately does not, leaving him completely bald, as if victim of some serious illness.

He goes to live with his grandfather, on Kree-Lar where the holdings of his House are situated.  
There is a big, empty mansion and lots of fields. He had been used to company and to the affection of his parents, but his grandfather is an old-fashioned Kree nobleman and has no time for a child. He appoints a tutor for him, to put him at least partially up to speed with the education he has missed.  
Ronan tries his hardest, but it seems it is never enough. His father at his age was smarter, tougher, braver. Everything he can do, he could do better, or at least that is what his grandfather says.

He misses his family, but his grandfather tolerates no weakness, and soon he learns not to cry and not to scream when he wakes up in the night, dreaming of fire.  
He does not know why the gods have made him survive, why him instead of his father. There must be a purpose to his life, but he doesn't know it and his heart aches with he finally starts the cadet program, two years later than he should have, he is relieved of being finally free from him.  
The relief is short-lived, though. He knows no one there, all his friends are either dead or still on Hala, and the children at the Academy are none too friendly with him. He is evidently older, and from the capital, and different. Some of the bolder ones ask him if he is a retard, others whisper that he must be half-breed.  
He would like to tell them the reason why he is there and why he is different, but his grandfather has forbidden him to "play the victim" any further by speaking of the accident. The world has moved on, he says.

He hasn't, though. He has seen no funerals, no commemoration speeches.  
He was fighting for his life, he had had hardly any time to mourn and grieve. His grandfather does not understand his need to elaborate his loss on his own terms. He condemns it as a weakness, instead, and in time Ronan accepts that he has no right to ask for any conditions of favor because of his history, that by talking about it he makes himself weak and pitiful, unworthy.

He keeps quiet, then. He is lonely, and desperate to prove himself to his grandfather.  
He studies hard, trains even harder, much harder than the rest of the kids in the first class. Halfway through the year they move him to the second class. He finishes with honours.  
By the end of his second year, he has not a single friend to his name, but he has recovered the two lost years and is on par with the rest of the boys his age.  
He has no reason to mention the accident anymore. He has pushed the memories in a corner of his mind. They are contained there and only emerge at night, sometimes.  
He is ashamed of those nightmares.

He is ten years old when he realizes that his grandfather has lied to him. People are still talking about the "accident".  
They talk about it continuously, in their debates and in the essays written for the Army. He learns that the orbital protection system has failed that day, possibly jammed by the enemy, and that the Xandarians still refuse to admit responsibility for the non-combatant victims of their so-called "surgical strikes".  
They claim the Kree have been using the cadets as sentient shields for sensitive military targets, that they have done nothing wrong.  
They lie.  
The Kree military have different names to call what the Xandarians have done: terrorism, war crimes.

Finally Ronan understands why the ancestors had made him live. He lives to redress that wrong, to bring justice to the criminals who destroyed everything he had. He will become an Accuser, something that not even his father or his grandfather have managed.  
It is a hard path, but now that he knows what his purpose is, he spends days and nights preparing for it and when at fifteen he is awarded the hammer of an Accuser, the youngest to be so rewarded in the last century or so, he finally sees pride in his grandfather's eyes. He doesn't demonstrate it, there are no parties, but he leads him to the crypts of the House, and hands over to him the Universal Weapon, the hammer used by all the Accusers of his line. It is a great boon.  
Ronan is happy, he finally finds a semblance peace.

For fifteen years he fights against the Xandarians, rapidly rising through the ranks. He is impartial and incorruptible. He has nothing else but his calling. He serves well.  
He never forgets his self-imposed mission, though.  
Relentlessly, he ferrets out the names of the pilots who dropped the bombs on the Great Temple and several other civilian targets, then the officers who gave the order, then the senior military who approved the battle plan. He talks to the survivors, fewer and fewer as the years pass and the guilt of being still alive when so many have died gets to them, he leaves no stone unturned, until finally he has proof enough to incriminate them all.

Meanwhile, the strategy of the Xandarians evolves from "surgical strikes" to "targeted eliminations" of enemy leaders. His grandfather is among them. The Xandarians hit him with a missile while he is in one of the outermost Imperial outposts, surveying the plantations. There is hardly enough of him left to bury.  
The Xandarians seem determined to prevent their dead to commune with the Ancients and keep serving the Empire.  
Ronan has never truly loved his grandfather, but he was the only thing he had left. He adds that crime to the list.  
There will be a reckoning.

Finally, the Xandarians, unable to prevail on the field of battle and to bend the will of the Kree with their crimes, decide to switch to an economic war.  
They convince the neutral potentates to stop trading with the Kree Empire, telling them lies about slavery and mistreatment of prisoners, about religious persecution and other assorted behaviour that, if true, would be totally contrary to the teachings of Pama.  
They do take haaq, of course, but they are treated mercifully, and the laws about interbreeding are there for a reason. The Blue Kree are so few because of the war, that no drop of blood can be wasted by watering down the bloodlines. And the other gods are obviously puny compared to the Supreme Being, but this doesn't concern the Kree. They don't care if other people know no wisdom.

The Xandarian ruse works, though, and soon the economy starts to falter. They win on the battlefield, but the war becomes unsustainable.  
There are talks of a treaty, of peace. Ronan realises that the people are tired of fighting. His is the third generation of Kree born during the war. It is time that it winds to a close.  
Ronan partecipates to the negotiations. He is now Supreme Accuser, part for his merits, part for his stubborn refusal to die even after so many assassination attempts have claimed the lives of colleagues and superiors.  
A scion of House Fiyero is head of the council at the time. He has been taken as a haaq by the Xandarians during the war and spent several years on Xandar before the Xandarians let him go. He heads the negotiations, being the one who knows Xandarian culture best.

As he sits at the negotiations table, Ronan recognizes some faces. They are the ones who gave the order for the "surgical strikes".  
He calls them out for it, he cannot help it. His skin feels like it is burning under his armour and the screams resonate in his ears.  
"I will not sit down at a table and negotiate with war criminals!" he says, then proceeds to throw in those people's faces all the crimes they have committed.  
Instead of supporting him, the other Kree delegates reprimand him for insulting the Xandarians delegates.  
He should not dig up misunderstandings from the past, they say. It is time to turn the page, to forgive and forget, and move on to a new era of prosperity with their new partners, the Xandarians.

But he cannot forget, those crimes are branded onto his skin and into his mind, and he cannot forgive thousands of innocent lives shattered like cheap earthenware, an entire generation of children obliterated, the Empire's most sacred place desecrated.  
He cannot, and he tells them so, shouting in rage against the Xandarians.  
He storms out of the meeting room and runs away.  
To vent his anger, he goes to the holographic training rooms of the Academy. He sets up the holograms to bear the face of those officers. He smashes them for hours, but it is hardly satisfying, so he keeps on going until he is so tired that he can no longer lift his hammer.  
When he emerges from the Academy, the treaty has already been signed, in record time.  
The population rejoices. Everybody is tired of the war.

Their joy only lasts until the text of the treaty is published, though.  
Most of those who read it, realize that something has gone horribly wrong during the negotiations and the Xandarians have managed to push several items that threaten to destroy the Kree way of life.  
Opening of the Imperial market to free import and export, privatization of the land, authorization for foreign companies to open branches in the Empire.  
The Xandarians have obtained a significant foothold into the until-then protected Kree economy. Combined with the general economic crisis engendered by the war, this can mean the dispossession of the lower castes, poverty and even famine in some places.  
It is not likely to affect the upper castes, but it is contrary to Pama nonetheless.

Riots spark throughout the Empire and the Council sends the Army to suffocate them. Many officers, among which Ronan is one of the most vocal, refuse to obey. They march to the Council and demand the renegotiation of the terms of the treaty.  
The Council refuses. "It is impossible. - they say - The Xandarians are ready to let us starve if we don't sign."  
Ronan wants to tell them that it would be better to die than to stray from the path of virtue, but soon realizes that the Council cannot take that decision, even if they wanted. It would be just delaying the inevitable.  
The Imperial Army could still wipe out the Nova Corps in battle, but the cowards refuse to meet them in the open field. The war cannot be sustained.  
Sooner or later they will have to sue for peace. Better to do it now, the conditions could be even worse later.  
They cannot win, but Ronan refuses to think that there is no other way. If there isn't he will find one, no matter what.

He goes rogue and a few other officers go rogue with him. Korath, a lower-caste chief of scouts in charge of the auxiliaries, stays with him through thick and thin.  
They appropriate one of the big cruiser-carriers, the Dark Aster, and get out of Kree space as fast as they can. No one moves to intercept. The people of the Empire is still with them.  
The Xandarians believe the Kree to be cruel zealots. He will give them what they want.  
He will put up a show they will not forget. He will have them cowering in fear, he vows, as he leaves his home, maybe to never return.

They contact Thanos, the universal bogeyman, confined to a pocket dimension on a shattered asteroid, asking his support in exchange for their services.  
Ronan fully intends to ditch the Mad Titan as soon as his objective is attained, but, in the meantime, Thanos requests his services more and more often, asking him to kill, to destroy wantonly.  
He has pledged his services, and his honour compels him to serve, even if what he is tasked to do is contrary to Pama.  
He tells himself that he is doing that for his people, to bring justice to the dead and the living, and forces himself to stay detached from what he is doing.  
He forgets benevolence and compassion, he desecrates his weapon of justice with the blood of the innocents, and the more he is ordered to do it, the easier it gets, until he cannot feel anything anymore as he kills, until every death blurs into a haze of blood and destruction.  
At night, fire and screams fill his dreams.

He manages to find some of the people responsible for the bombings and brings them to justice, but even smashing their skulls with his hammer does not satisfy him as he had though it would.  
Hate blossoms in his chest, it grows, suffocating the virtues Pama has nurtured in him, and soon it is hard for him to remember that his is supposed to be an act, that his threats are aimed at changing the terms of the peace, that he doesn't really want the complete destruction of Xandar.

By the time he has obtained the Infinity Stone, he is guided solely by hate, he is almost mad with it. He only wants to destroy, first Xandar and then Thanos himself, and then the gods only know.  
That a ragtag band of criminals has managed to stop him should aggravate him, and it does, but he is grateful that they have.  
He is grateful for the humiliating little dance trick, for shooting him into a building, or several, for kicking him when he was down, and especially for letting him live with the shame of what he has become.

He has let his anger blind him and lead him, and now he is no better than the ones who have wronged his people.  
He is unworthy of being an Accuser, he is unworthy even of being haaq. He is so lowly that his new masters have left him in the hands of the Xandarians, like an unwanted, cumbersome baggage.  
He is nothing.  
It is fitting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am not trying to bash Nova Prime in this chapter, but to show her as an efficient and ruthless politician, who sees the big picture and has the interests of the Xandarian Empire as her top priority. Too bad for everyone who stands in her way.
> 
> Honest.

Ronan wakes up from another nightmare to find none other than the Nova Prime, also known as Dame Irani Rael, standing at his bedside.  
She looks down at him with a carefully blank expression on her pale pink face. Her eyes glitter, hard like diamonds.

"You are one of the survivors from the airstrikes. - she says, not asks - That was why you were so angry at the negotiations."  
Ronan blinks in confusion, then nods. A shard of pain goes through his head, painting stars under his eyelids.  
"Which one? The Academy on Kilda? The military compound on Scatha?" she asks neutrally.  
He knows the victim counts of each, they range in the hundreds, if not thousands, yet she says the names as if they mean nothing.

"The Great Temple. On Hala." he rasps.  
Nova Prime nods. "Ah. You didn't make it in time to the ceremony, I suppose." she says calmly, as if she is speaking of the weather.  
"I was there. Inside the Temple." Ronan growls.  
This makes her change expression, at least. Her eyebrows arch in surprise.

"You are one of the fifteen, then." she says.  
There are only nine now, the others have succumbed to grief and guilt, and there will be eight when he dies.  
"I am not one of the seven thousand three hundred and seventy-six." he retorts. That was the final count, considering even those whose bodies, vaporized in the explosion, were never found.  
Nova Prime does not even blink. "When the strategy was planned, it seemed wise to sacrifice a few thousand to stop a war that could have killed millions." she states calmly.

Ronan tries to sit up, to launch himself off the bed and attack that sanctimonious woman. Agony shoots through his body, and the chains yank him back.  
"They were civilians! Children!" he explodes.  
Nova Prime just takes a step back and stares at him unblinkingly.  
"I want you to know that I always opposed that strategy. - she says - It was unnecessarily heavy on collateral damage, and we should have imagined that wiping out your leadership would have not stopped the Empire. Your warlike indoctrination is too strong. You just do not know when to stop." she comments loftily.  
Ronan is struck speechless by the callousness of that seemingly frail woman.

"We should have realized that starving you out would have been the best solution to obtain what we wanted. - she adds - It worked, didn't it?"  
"Or you could have met us in battle, you cowards!" Ronan exclaims.  
"We could have, but why should we? - she replies - We don't train our children to be killing machines since the age of six. We don't share a fetish for heroic death with you Kree. We do what is practical, not what is honourable. We like to win, not to fight uselessly." she explains.  
"You are craven. Without honour!" Ronan protests.  
"Maybe, but we won. - she retorts seraphically - And now, thanks to you, that treaty is set in stone. We should give you public thanks, really." she adds sweetly.  
Ronan struggles against the chains, furious and nearly mad with pain.  
"Actually, some conspiracy theorists say that you were working for us all along..." she continues, and he freezes as if struck by a deadly blow. That is a shame he didn't even know he was bearing.

"Your people should thank you too. - she goes on and he can't tell if she is oblivious of his pain, or quietly reveling in it - Your civilization was stagnant, dying. Trapped by rituals and ceremonies and unable to progress. The treaty will force them to change." she concludes.  
"The treaty will push people into destitution! - he objects - It will give free reign to greed and ambition and turn honour into an empty concept!"  
"You say this as if it is a bad thing. - she chides him - Ambition is good. It drives progress. Your politicians have realized it, finally, with some help from Kathair Fiyero. Better later than never." she comments smugly.  
"He was your man!" Ronan accuses.  
"Of course. - she replies offhandedly - War is a long game, we like to be prepared on all fronts. We have just shown him that here on Xandar, hard work is repaid with something a bit more substantial than a ceremonial weapon and a place in that abominable collective intelligence of yours after death."  
"Honour is its own reward." Ronan spits.

Words cannot express his disgust towards the scion of House Fiyero. If he were free, he'd make his mission of accusing him and bringing him to justice for high treason.  
"Maybe, but wealth is a bigger incentive. - Nova Prime concedes - Perhaps it will even give your oppressed lower classes the ambition to do something on their own, instead of looking for protection and guidance from you. They will be free."  
"Free to starve and to steal. Free to sell their honour to the highest bidder. - he retorts - What sort of freedom is that?"  
"It is the only kind. - Nova Prime replies - They will adapt, I am sure. Everything does if it wants to survive. You will too. Or maybe not. I have heard that you people are fond of ritual suicide." she adds, coming closer to the bed and staring at him hard.

"Now that the entire Galaxy knows that we have taken you prisoner, and that we are treating you humanely even after what you have done, we don't really need to keep you. - she says in a quiet hard voice - You are free to shuffle this mortal coil the way you prefer. You'll spare us the expense of cell and keep."  
Ronan is even further appalled by her words. Thankfully, he is not _haaq_ to the Xandarians, or she might even order him to take his life, and he would be honour-bound to comply.  
"Then I will live, if only to spite you." he declares.  
Nova Prime shrugs. "I don't care either way. - she says and it rings true - Your moment of glory, so to speak, is over. You are history. Live or die, you are no longer a threat to us." she concludes.  
The worst is that she doesn't even hate him. He can see that.  
It is not personal for her, not a question of principles. It is just business.

"I didn't do this for glory! I did it for justice." he says nonetheless, wishing he didn't sound so desperate.  
"I had imagined. - Nova Prime comments - Those pilots you killed... we knew they had been responsible for the airstrikes. Well done. Now the truth is dead with them." she points out.  
"I have proof." Ronan insists.  
"No, you have not. - she declares - We have it, whatever has not been destroyed in the crash of the Dark Aster. We'll keep it safe for you." she pretends to reassure him, but her face and her voice are blank, empty.

"You can rest assured that it will never see the light again. - she promises quietly but with steel in her voice - We can't have something like that reach the public. It would be... inconvenient."  
"I will proclaim the truth! You will have to kill me to keep me silent!" Ronan shouts, feeling like a trapped animal, with increasingly less space to run.  
"And who will listen to you on Xandar, after what you have done? - she asks sweetly - You are a terrorist and a criminal. Your word is worth less than nothing here. As I said, you have no power to hurt us anymore."

As much as he would like to deny it, Ronan recognizes that it is the truth and that there is nothing he can do to change things.  
He has failed.  
Everything he has ever fought for, all his life, has been for nothing.  
Justice will not be done, and it is in good part his own fault.

Something breaks anew inside him, and from her expression, he can tell that Nova Prime has noticed.  
She does not gloat, though. Her expression is sad instead.  
She pities him, which makes it all worse.

"I am sorry for your loss. I really am. - she says and it sounds like the truth - But you should have let it go. You should have moved on. Your government has, finally. They didn't even ask for formal apologies from us. They are eager to leave that phase behind." she reveals.  
"It is wrong! It is wrong!" he cries.

Rows and rows of mostly empty tombs, shattered families, grown people who couldn't sleep at night without medication because what if they come back? What if they burn us from the sky again?  
It means nothing any longer. To no one.

"Right, wrong... Justice, honour... You Kree are surprisingly naive. - Nova Prime says - Reality is much more complicated than that. It's time that you learned it." she says before she leaves.

Blind with tears, Ronan only hears the door close behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here the angst is turned down a notch and things start to stir up a bit
> 
> Enjoy!

After Nova Prime leaves, Ronan spends days and days in a sort of limbo, stuck in that hospital bed.  
He doesn't move or speak. Xandarian medical personnel pass by. They tend to his wounds, touch him, move him around to prevent bedsores.  
He doesn't even notice. He is barely aware of anything. His eyes are open and unblinking, but he doesn't see them. He barely hears their voices as they talk about him or between themselves, about their own business.

They think he has snapped, that his mind is gone. They are not very far from the truth.

He cannot find the will to live, but cannot find the strength to take his own life either. Physical death, the end of suffering, would be too great a boon for him.  
He feels already dead inside, though. His soul is shattered. Everything he was or believed to be is no more.  
He doesn't even know where to start to pick up the pieces and glue himself back together.  
He is nothing. He has no place in the new world the Xandarians have pushed on his people, he has no role.

Except that he has, he suddenly realizes one day.  
He is _haaq_ to those bounty-hunters. They have beaten him, not exactly fairly, but thoroughly. Them, not the Xandarians!  
Star-Lord, their leader, had even said the words. He claimed him, now he is theirs by law and custom.

In any other circumstance, the perspective would be appalling, but in his particular situation it represents hope, meaning, the possibility of atoning, even just partially, for his crimes.  
They have abandoned him, but maybe it is because they didn't understand the implications of their claim. Few non-Kree do.  
It doesn't really matter. He'll set them straight on it when he finds them.  
Once he explains everything to them, they will do the right thing, he is sure, and if not, maybe Drax will kill him. Or maybe that furry creature, Rocket. Or Gamora. It doesn't matter, he is not picky.

Having a goal helps a lot, he realizes. Finally, after he doesn't really know how long, he finds the strength to focus on his surroundings, to move.  
Thinking him gone to la-la land for good, the Xandarians have taken away his chains. He vaguely remembers them complaining about how hard it was to move him with them on. He blesses the weakness of these Xandarians, because it is his salvation.  
The surveillance is minimal for the same reason. There are no cameras in the room and plenty of stuff to improvise weapons with.  
Even if he is still weak and stiff from his prolonged immobilization, he reckons he could break out, with a bit of preparation. He just needs to find the right moment to run for it.

For a few days after that, he tries to regain as much mobility as he can by stretching and doing some inconspicuous exercise when the Xandarians are not looking. He is still confined to the bed, though. He has too many cannulas and sensors stuck to his person to be able to remove and replace them at will. He makes do.  
When the Xandarians are around, he acts like he is still totally out of his mind. He feigns unresponsiveness, stares in the distance and even drools. He withdraws again into his mind, but this time it is to plan and to meditate.

His time finally comes. The two Xandarian nurses, a yellow-skinned man and a pink woman, leave for lunch. Outside it is raining like there is no tomorrow. There will be hardly any people in the streets.  
The two have barely left his room when he switches off the monitors. The sensors go, and then the various cannulas. The one stuck in his stomach, through which they were feeding him, hurts like hell, but goes too. He patches himself up quickly with the supplies at hand. It is quite painful, but he will heal soon.

When he tries to stand, everything spins, even if he has sat down on the bed for quite a bit to let his blood pressure equalize. He nearly faints, but manages to pull through. He tries to walk. His legs wobble, but hold.  
Next, he looks for clothes. He knows there are scrubs and other odds and ends in one of the cupboards and there is no way he is going to escape in a hospital gown, with his backside hanging out for all to see. He is not that desperate, yet.  
The white clothes make his skin look even more conspicuously blue. There is no way he can blend in, but it does not matter. He doesn't plan on being seen.

He grabs a kit bag, empties it of most of its contents and stashes in it as many antibiotics and painkillers he can find in the room.  
The antibiotics are for him, he is running around with an open hole in his stomach and a few others on his arms after all.  
The painkillers are not.  
The Xandarians have left several highly inebriant and addictive substances lying around, the unauthorized sale and administration of which are illegal in most systems. They are also very sought after in the black market, especially pure and highly concentrated like the medical-grade formulations he has appropriated. They will come in handy if he needs some cash.

Forty-five minutes have passed since the nurses have left. They never return before an hour has passed, but he cannot tarry. Time is running out.  
The corridor is empty when he exits the room.  
He checks for cameras. There is one, but they have left a massive blind spot under it when they installed it. Ronan crouches and slinks away undetected. He follows the signs to the closest fire exit, avoiding the cameras and disabling one of them with a spray of liquid plaster.  
The fire door itself has been propped open with a weight, probably by someone who wanted to have a smoke and couldn't be bothered to walk to the designated smoking area. No one is smoking now. It is raining too hard.  
He slides out and goes down the stairs into the garden. It is totally empty.  
In a matter of minutes he is completely soaked. His stolen clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin.

He crosses the gardens as fast as he can manage, looking for an exit. He finds it near one of the now-empty team-sports pitches.  
Someone has pushed a bench close to the wall separating the gardens from an adjacent property. Standing on the backrest, he can easily reach the top of the wall and push himself over. He ends up in another garden. It is a residential compound.  
From the inside, the door leading to the street opens through a simple switch fitted with no additional security mechanisms. It must be a quiet neighborhood.

Ronan runs along the empty street, looking for a vehicle to aid his escape. He is quite close to the limit of his forces, exhausted and half-frozen by the cold rain.  
A speedercar passes by. He hides behind the shrubbery in someone's front garden.  
A sign on a nearby post catches his attention: it reads "West Point Airfield, 1/2 klik". It must be his lucky day.

He resumes his march and quickly finds his target. The front is guarded. He bets the back is not.  
He is right and mentally pats himself on the back for it.  
At the back of the airfield, the security is confided to a canal and a rusty metal net.  
He wades into the canal, he is already so wet that it makes no difference, and starts circling around the back. He has to walk for quite a bit before he finds an opening, but there it is. Some animals have dug a passage below the reticulate in their quest for water.  
He pushes the bag in first, then squeezes through. It is a tight fit, and he wouldn't have managed if he had not lost so much weight during his hospitalization. The mud helps him slide through.  
He scoops some up in his hands and purposefully smears it all over his clothes and exposed skin. Now those scrubs are not so starkly white anymore, and his skin is not so noticeably blue. It is a rather disgusting feeling, but being covered in mud will help him remain undetected as he crawls through the airfield.

The only space-worthy ship he can find is an old-ish personal cruiser, a sleek little thing that can carry two-three people at most. This one seems to have clocked quite a bit of parsecs, and bears a lot of stickers from the border checks of different systems. These ships usually have a cramped bathroom and a bunk room. It must belong to an old couple of travelers, he judges.  
He wishes it was the personal ship of some Xandarian officer or politician, instead. It would have made things easier, but beggars cannot be choosers. He overrides the lock and gains access to the cockpit, then hijacks the commands.  
The engines purr quietly. He is flying out of there before the control tower realizes what is happening.

It is only after he has reached the orbit that he allows himself to think about how many felonies he has committed in a single day: trespassing, drug possession, petty theft for the clothes, and now spaceship-jacking. It would make for an impressive rap sheet.  
Scratch that, just the amount of drugs he has in that bag would earn him a prolonged stay in prison in most lawful systems, and a close encounter with an Accuser's hammer back on Hala.  
He is not planning to go anywhere lawful, though. He sets his course for Knowhere and let the ship jump to curvature speed.

When he lands on Knowhere, the alien manning the parking lot doesn't even blink at the sight of a mud-covered Kree. He looks like he has seen worse things park in there.  
Before setting foot outside, Ronan takes his time and allows himself a shower to get rid of the mud and of the stink of hospital that has clung to his skin. He tends to his wounds once more and takes a shot of antibiotic for safety.

The shower-room itself is rather filthy. There are several razors, but no womanly toiletries. Entering the bunk room, he realizes that he has appropriated the ship not from an old couple, but from three or four young men with a poor sense of hygiene. An extra bunk has been fitted haphazardly and the walls are covered in posters and fliers of musical events. There are a wardrobe and a chest riveted to the floor. The young men have left some clothes in there, thankfully.

Ronan is taller and in general bigger than the average Xandarian, but the Xandarians interbreed freely with anything that moves and has legs, so the average is not really representative. He finds some stuff that fits, more or less, and is reasonably clean.  
The undershirt bears the logo of something music-related and is all stretched from careless washing, the leggings are a garish red, patterned with purple and black and are skin-tight, and the socks still stink vaguely. He finds a black hooded garment and a pair of boots more or less his size. He slips them on and suddenly feels a bit more like himself, a bit safer and less exposed. There is even a jacket, even if it has far more belts and buckles than strictly required by practical considerations.

Ronan stuffs a couple of vials of painkillers in the pocket of his jacket and pulls up his hood.  
He is ready to tackle the next step of his plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is slightly wacky.
> 
> Warnings: mild violence, mentions of drug use, minor homophobic comments.
> 
> Enjoy!

After so many years working in law enforcement, finding a dealer is relatively easy. He has no frame of reference for how to interact with the man, however. In the past, he gave the small fish a good beating and clapped them in irons, or smote the bigger fish with his hammer. None of this is going to be helpful in his current situation.  
Ultimately he just slinks towards the man, a green-skinned humanoid dressed in shabby clothes.

"I have something that might interest you." he says quietly.  
"I doubt it, faggot. - the dealer retorts disdainfully - I am not into ass. Push over."  
Ronan does not know if he is more surprised or more offended by being mistaken for a male prostitute. Are his stolen clothes so improper?

"That is not what I am referring to. - he replies stiffly - I am talking about the devil's juice. Liquid dream." he adds, hoping that the slang for that particular substance is the same on Knowhere as in Kree space.  
The man's eyebrows shoot up. "I am listening." he says quietly.

Ronan takes the two vials out of his pocket and deposits them in the dealer's hand. The man makes a show of examining them, but it is clear that they came straight from the factory.  
"This is good stuff. - the dealer approves - I can give you a good price for it."  
Ronan nods. The man forks out a wad of cash and hands it over to him.

When Ronan takes it, the dealer grabs his wrist. "Is there more of it where these came from?" he asks.  
"Perhaps. I'll have to see what I can do." Ronan answers, avoiding definite committment in either direction. He doesn't know how long he will have to search for his quarry and how much it will cost him.  
"If there is, come to me, alright bro? - the dealer offers - I'll give you an honest price for it. I am an honest man." he declares.  
Ronan has the impression that the man doesn't even know what "honest" means.

The first thing he procures with the cash from his crime is a portable comm apparatus.  
He obtains a reasonably powerful one probably stolen in Nova space, from a fence. It works, even if there is still a lot of data from the previous owner on it: pictures of a young man, his wife and their children, text messages and call logs. It is not the first time he handles stolen goods, but it is the first time he uses some for his benefit. The idea unsettles him.

He stops at a junk shop for some other purchases, then moves to a shabby eatery. He is starving.  
Though the furniture is rickety and mismatched, the hygienic conditions are surprisingly acceptable. He orders whatever passes for soup and bread and sits at a table, assembling his purchases.

Last time he was on Knowhere, Drax had led him there. The tattooed brute had told him where to find them, but he knew better than believing a fugitive at face value.  
He had checked the man's position with a Galactic Localization Decoder, an instrument that used metadata encoded in a transmission to derive the origin of a call based on satellites and network relays. It was pretty accurate, and he had been using them for his job ever since one of his course-mates invented it for an assignment at the Academy. The boy had even told him how to make them. It was relatively easy, if one knew what to do.

The soup and bread arrive. Ronan interrupts his work and starts to eat very cautiously and slowly. He doesn't really know how much time he has spent in hospital, but it must be at least a month since the last time he has had any solid food. His stomach must have shrunk with disuse in the meantime. He has to take it easy if he doesn't want to feel ill straight away.  
It takes him only a few spoonfuls of soup and a morsel of bread to feel already full. He leaves the food alone and continues to work, taking occasional bites from the bread in between.

The GLD is ready in less than an hour. Ronan slots the power pack in the device and it pings to life with a quiet beep. Everything seems to be working. He connects the GLD to the comm with a cable and calls the phone company hotline to calibrate it.  
As he waits for an operator, the GLD quietly crunches its numbers, and returns him a location corresponding to one of the least-developed planets in the Nova system. The place is famous for hosting lots of de-localized services. Pays are much lower and workers are less protected than on the central planets of the Nova Empire. Businesspeople love the combination and the profits it affords them.

If that is how the Nova treat their own people for money, he dreads to think of what will happen to his people when businesspeople start flocking in in search of easy profit. The Kree Empire hardly has any labour law. There is a minimal framework, but everything else is regulated privately between employers and employees, on the implicit understanding that all transactions will be conducted honourably and on the basis of mutual respect. The Nova will have a field day...

Ronan pushes those thoughts away. There is no point for him to think about that now. What he needs to now is to find the Guardians.  
They are bounty hunters, and live off commissions. Their contact number is therefore prominently displayed on their business page on the ComNet.  
He takes a deep breath and dials it up. His heart beats crazily in anxiety and he even feels vaguely nauseous. The comm rings and rings on the other side.  
Ronan is starting to think that there is no one home, when finally someone picks it up.

"Guardians of the Galaxy bounty and security services!" someone says on the other side.  
Ronan recognizes the voice. It is Star-Lord and he seems... he seems slightly inebriated from the way he slurs. Ronan is slightly disappointed, but cannot really say that he is surprised. Star-Lord looks like the type of man who indulges in... well in everything.  
"Who is speaking?" the Terran asks.  
Ronan hesitates. The GLD is taking its time to spit a location. He needs to keep the call going for a while longer, but he cannot give himself away yet, or his quarry will escape.

"Are you Star-Lord?" he asks, feigning excitement and a strong Nova accent.  
"Yes." the Terran answers.  
" _The_ Star-Lord?!" Ronan continues, cursing against the blasted machine. Why is it going so slow?  
"Yeah. That's me! - the Terran confirms - I didn't know I was _that_ famous..." he adds, clearly pleased by the attention.  
"Who's that, Peter?" Ronan can hear Gamora's voice in the distance.  
"Is that a customer?" she asks.  
"Yes, yes. - Star-Lord reassures her in a whisper - Who are you then?" he asks more loudly, into the comm.

Ronan nearly panics.  
"I... I am in dire need of your assistance." he improvises. It is not a valid identification, but it is true and it seems to stave off further questions.  
"Only you can help me." he adds, and this is also true. As his instructors at the Academy have told him, there is hardly ever any need for lying. The truth is often very effective.  
"Ok, buddy, I need you to calm down and tell me what is the problem, alright?" Star-Lord says, sounding instantly sober and willing to help. He believes himself a hero. Maybe he is.  
"Are you in immediate danger?" the Terran asks.  
"Ask them if they can pay!" a voice exclaims in the distance. Rocket. The furry creature is greedy. Good to know.  
"Probably yes." Ronan replies.  
In all likelihood, the Xandarians will be already looking for him around the Galaxy. It is only a matter of time before one of their agents spots him or his stolen ship.

The GLD finally pings. Pama must be looking down on him with benevolence, despite what he has done, because it turns out that they are on Knowhere too, literally two blocks away from his current position.  
"Listen, - he says - I cannot talk to you now. I'll call back." he says, then drops the comm on the table so that they will hear a lot of noise and cuts the call.  
He is nearly trembling in dread and excitement. He is close to finding salvation, but there is still room for failure. He cannot think about it now, though. He has to keep calm and think on his feet if he wants to be able to convince the Guardians to keep him.

He quickly pays the bill and walks out of the eatery.  
In the alley at the back, he pulls the power pack out of the GLD and smashes it against the wall, dumping its sorry remains into two or three different bins.  
He might have become _haaq_ to a group of non-Kree, but he is not going to give away a military secret of his people like that.  
This is going to be his last act of defiance, though. From then onwards he is honor-bound to obey his captors completely and in all things.  
Deed done, he walks as fast as he can to their position.

He catches up with them as they are getting out of a tavern of some sorts and to their ship. He hides behind another ship and allows himself a moment to watch them.  
Rocket, Drax, Gamora and Star-Lord. They walk close to each other, not for protection, but because they are comfortable like that. Rocket carries a... a vase? Yes, it is a vase, and it seems to contain a sapling version of the plant person who was fighting alongside them on the Dark Aster.  
The furry creature is talking to the sapling and it replies in a childish voice.  
"I am Groot!" it chirps.  
The Guardians laugh at that remark, as if it is a splendid joke. They seem relaxed and happy in each other's presence. They care for each other.  
Secretly he envies them.

Ha cannot just stand there and look at them forever though. He takes several deep breaths to steady himself and circles the ship he was hiding behind, appearing in front of them and blocking their path.  
"Hey, buddy! What's the matter?" Star-Lord asks, confused and slightly worried.  
"Guardians of the Galaxy... I have been looking for you." Ronan says, standing as straight and proud as he can manage. He is enjoying the fact that he has managed to unsettle them.  
"Oh, really? - Star-Lord retorts - And who the hell are you, apart from someone with a weird fashion sense?" he provokes.  
Ronan decides not to take offense. His clothes are actually odd and mismatched.  
"You know me already." he declares, lowering his hood so that his face is revealed.

Four (or five if you count the sapling) pairs of eyes look at him with vague confusion. They don't seem to recognize him without the warpaint. he knows it was very distinctive, and he knows also that people tended to see only that and his hammer when they looked at him.  
Star-Lord is the first to recognize him, and Ronan can't help the shiver of satisfaction that courses through him when the Terran's eyes go very wide and his hands drop towards his blaster pistols.  
"You?! - Rocket exclaims, drawing that huge gun of his - What?! How?!" he sputters.  
Ronan feels the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk. It thrills him that they still consider him a dangerous foe, even if he is so diminished.  
He draws breath to talk and explain, but a war cry explodes from Drax's' chest and suddenly the brute is charging towards him like an enraged bull.

Ronan sees the first blow coming with plenty of time to evade or respond. His instinct screams for him to step out, grab Drax's wrist and twist his arm out of its socket, but he can't hurt him. He cannot hurt any of them.  
A _haaq_ is not allowed to raise a hand on his masters.

By the time he manages to repress his instinctual reaction, it is too late for him to evade. He takes the blow straight to his face.  
The punch is hard enough and he is still weak enough that he ends up sprawling.  
Drax doesn't leave him the time to try and get up, but flies towards him and starts kicking him. The first kick gets him straight in the stomach, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. The blows don't stop after that.

Ronan curls up, trying to protect himself. He should have started talking straight away, without pausing to gloat like an idiot.  
"This is going to be much harder than I anticipated." he thinks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild violence, blood, angst.
> 
> The OP of the LiveJournal kinkmeme suggested Gamora as the one who realizes what is going on, but it made more sense for it to be Drax, instead.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Who the hell was that?" Rocket asks, when the comm is interrupted.  
Peter shrugs his shoulders. "I have absolutely no idea." he replies.  
"Not a real customer, anyway." the sentient raccoon comments dejectedly.  
"That voice. - Drax chimes in - It reminds me of someone, but I am not sure of whom."  
Peter shrugs again. He feels like he is on the verge of remembering the voice of the prank-caller, if that was actually a prank-call, but the name escapes him. It must be the booze.

"Alright, guys and girl. - he announces, massaging his tired eyes with the heels of his hands - Time to get some z's. I think we've had enough for tonight." he proposes.  
Drax and Rocket obviously protest, they always do. Unsurprisingly, Little Groot helps.  
"I am Groot!" he protests, and Peter knows he means something like "But we were having so much fun!". Plants shouldn't be able to make puppy eyes, but Groot somehow manages to look even cuter when he pleads.

"Stop it, you're behaving like children. - Gamora intervenes - We have places to be tomorrow, and I'm not flying with a band of people nursing their hangovers." she declares. Thankfully she has no problems with putting her foot down when the situation requires it.  
Rocket and Drax know it is not worth trying to resist. "I am Groot..." the sapling protests, crossing his branches and frowning.  
"No, it's not very fun at all..." Rocket agrees.

They are getting to the ship when the raccoon decides to get his revenge.  
"You know what, Groot?- he says, loud enough for all the group to hear even if he is carrying Groot's vase in his arms - I think that weirdo called because he is a Star-Lord fanboy."  
"I am Groot?" the sapling asks.  
"It means that he has the hots for our brave leader. That he would like to make fruits with him!" Rocket explains.  
"Making fruits" being the delicate and still obvious plant-person equivalent of having sex. Peter feels his cheeks colouring and turns to reply, but Groot beats him to it.  
"I am Groot!" the sapling says innocently. "Of course he wants. Peter is beautiful." he means. Peter can't help but laugh.  
Rocket looks at him in dismay.  
"I am Groot." he adds, smiling wide and hugging Rocket as close as possible. "You all are, especially you."  
"I _am_ Groot!" he adds enthusiastically. "When I am in my springtime, I will make fruits with you all!"  
"I am Groot." he concludes shyly. "So you will stay with me always."  
"Of course we will, little one." Gamora chimes in, stepping back to brush the sapling with her fingers.  
"I am Groot!" the sapling exclaims, bouncing with joy. The group cannot help but laugh with him, captured by his happiness.

When they stop laughing and turn to resume walking, a tall, imposing figure is blocking their way to the ship.  
It is a man, broad-shouldered and lean. The stranger stands confidently, hands curled into loose fists at his sides. He is dressed like a punk, with boots, extremely tight and colorful trousers, a hoodie and a leather jacket. No weapons are visible, but that doesn't mean he is not carrying any. The hood hides his face almost completely. Peter can't guess the man's identity, not even his species.  
The only thing he can tell about the man is that he has an extremely nice ass.

"Hey, buddy! What's the matter?" Peter asks, slightly wary.  
It would not be the first time he gets ambushed in a parking lot, but he tends to try and avoid fighting against the kind of individual who is willing to go toe to toe with the four of them, if he can.  
"Guardians of the Galaxy... I have been looking for you." the man says.  
His voice is deep, smooth and cultured. A nice voice for a probable psycho, Peter thinks, and realizes he has already had a similar thought before, minus the probable.

"Oh, really? - he asks - And who the hell are you, apart from someone with a weird fashion sense?" he jabs.  
He sees the man draw himself up in outrage for a moment, then relax back with an audible sigh.  
"You know me already." the man says, then, with slow and deliberate moves, lowers his hood, revealing a fine-featured, blue face and a bald blue head. Intense blue eyes focus on him expectantly.  
For a moment, Peter draws a blank, then...

"Oh crap..." he thinks. He knows where he has heard that voice, where he has seen that face.  
It is impossible, or at least highly improbable, because last he saw him three months before, the Xandarians were going to stick him in the deepest prison on the planet, but everything tells Peter that the man standing in front of him is none other than Ronan the Accuser.  
His face is gaunter, a bit worn, and the warpaint is missing. It makes him look more approachable, more vulnerable, but Peter has no doubts that he is still as lethal as ever, even without his armour and hammer.

His hands unconsciously drop towards the blasters holstered at his waist. Ronan notices and smirks smugly, pleased by the effect he still has on him. Damned blue psycho!  
Peter notices that Rocket has lowered Little Groot to the floor and picked up his gun. A few paces away, Gamora and Drax have also taken up arms and seem ready to fight.  
Peter has doubts about calling the attack, though. He is not sure that they can do much against Ronan, they haven't managed to do much at all against him in their previous encounters, except being thrown around all over the place like rag dolls.  
Their last fight on Xandar doesn't count. Ronan should have been killed by the blast of the Infinity Stone by then.  
The fact that he had not died then was a testament to how fucking un-killable that guy was.

Luckily for them, Ronan doesn't seem in a killing mood at the moment, but it is hard to tell. It is not like Peter has any frame of reference on the man's moods or habits.  
Maybe he just wants to go in a rant before wiping the floor with them. Ronan seems about to start talking, when Drax launches himself at him.  
It worked last time, but now that the Kree doesn't have one foot already in the grave, things can turn sour quite quickly.

Ronan tenses up to fight, but then hesitates, seemingly frozen in place, an expression of inner conflict on his face.  
Drax's punch connects with his jaw at full power, tipping his head backwards. Ronan loses his footing and crashes to the ground.  
Drax loses no time and started kicking him hard. The first kick connects with the Kree's midriff hard enough to make him cry out in agony, and then Ronan just curls up on the ground in a protective posture, taking the beating without even trying to defend himself or retaliate. It is odd, very odd.  
Even weak and almost dead after being blasted with the Infinity Stone, the blue bastard had still tried to give it as good as he got it, and now he isn't even making an effort against a guy he knows he can take.  
And then, if he is after them to get even for what happened on Xandar, why is he letting Drax wipe the floor with him?  
Peter wishes the explanation was that Ronan has become the Kree equivalent of Joe Normal, but a gut instinct tells him that it is going to be much more complicated than that.

"Drax! Stop!" he calls out, but the man barely hears him.  
"Why are you always stopping me when I am beating this man?" Drax asks, giving the unresisting Kree another kick.  
"He is not even defending himself!" Peter points out.  
"I find this arrangement perfectly satisfying." Drax replies, kicking out again.  
Peter growls in frustration. He means to say something more, but Gamora beats him to it. She tackles Drax to the ground and sits on his chest to prevent him from standing again.  
"Why did you do that?!" Drax exclaims. He sounds heartbroken.

Ronan is still on the ground. Peter hears him gasp in pain as he tries to push himself up.  
He pulls out his guns and points them at the Kree's head. His aim is steady and he reckons that at such a short distance even if he can't kill him straight away, he will be able to do a lot of damage.  
Ronan rises to his knees and raises his hands over his head in surrender. A black bruise is forming on his face.  
"I am not here to harm you. - he says quietly - I am here to give myself up." he adds.  
This time it is Peter's turn to be completely baffled by the other's behavior.  
"What?! - he blurts out - What are you doing?!" he asks, and then feels like an idiot because that's exactly what the blue bastard said to him when he was doing his dance-off distraction.

The Kree smirks again. He clearly has caught on the joke.  
"I can explain." he says calmly.  
"Then do it, and do it quickly. - Peter orders - And if I don't like your explanation I will shoot you in the face. Maybe it won't kill you, but I'm sure it will hurt." he threatens.  
Ronan nods. "It is fair." he acquiesces.  
"Get started. - Peter orders - How did you escape from the Nova? How did you find us?"  
"With relative ease." the Kree replies smugly. He shrugs, winces in pain, lowers a hand to his midriff and starts talking again.  
"I convinced the Xandarians that I was no longer able to pose a threat, so they relaxed the security. - he explains calmly - I ran away from the hospital, stole a spaceship and came here to Knowhere. I found you like the last time, by tracking your phone." he adds and it feels like he is twisting the knife a bit.

"The phone call! It was you!" Rocket chimes in.  
"Yes. It was me." Ronan confirms.  
The bastard had the drop on them from the start!  
"So you knew where we were. You could have killed us easily." Peter commented.  
"Not easily, no. - the Kree replied perfectly serious and placid - I am still not completely restored. It would have taken quite a bit of effort to take you all down, especially Gamora."  
"Thanks. I'll take it as a compliment." the green-skinned assassin says.  
Ronan nodded. "It is." he confirms.

"Then why didn't you?!" Peter explodes, totally weirded out by the direction the conversation is taking.  
"Because I am not seeking revenge from you." Ronan replies as if it is obvious to everyone but a confused Star-Lord.  
"I am seeking atonement." Ronan says, astonishingly.  
"What?!" this time the exclamation of surprise is shared between him, Drax and Rocket.

Ronan sighs and lowers his head.  
"What I did on Xandar and before, in the service of Thanos... It was wrong. - he says, looking to the ground in obvious shame - It was unjust and unforgivable." he adds and Peter has a hard time trying to reconcile those words, which sound sincere and heartfelt, with the self-righteous Accuser he thought he knew.

"I don't know how I ended up doing such things, they were never part of the plan. - he continues, his voice lost and almost breaking - I only wanted to force the Xandarians to admit their war crimes against us and renegotiate the treaty. I never intended to destroy Xandar itself."  
"Well, you did a good impression of someone who would have loved nothing better. You convinced everyone." Peter provokes.  
Ronan raises his head again and meets Peter's eyes with his own.  
"I know. - he admits - I don't know how I got there, but when you stopped me, I really wanted to do it. I..." he stops, lowers his gaze and shakes his head.  
"I am not trying to exculpate myself. - he continues in a moment - I take full responsibility of my actions. I have behaved unjustly and mercilessly. I have slaughtered innocents. I have become like the people I wanted to bring to justice. I have dishonoured myself and my people." he declares.  
Peter thinks that he has summed it up pretty nicely. It must have been a pretty painful realization for the Kree, though. Even though he doesn't like the man at all, he cannot help admiring him at least a bit for being brave enough to admit it.

"And when did you figure that out?" Peter asks sarcastically, trying to push those thoughts away.  
"After you defeated me with the Infinity Stone. - Ronan replies, oblivious to the sarcasm - It was as if a cloud had lifted from my mind. Even as I tried to fight against you afterwards, I was starting see the reality of what I had done. I am glad that you stopped me. I wish someone had been able to stop me sooner." he adds wistfully.

"I've never been thanked by anyone for kicking their arses. That's properly weird, you know? Did your "villains anonymous" counselor suggest you to do that? " Peter comments, shaking his head. He gets no response.  
"I'm starting to realize that you are the king of the weirdos, so I suppose it is par for the course. - he continues - Thanks and confession accepted. Now, is that it? Is that why you came here?"  
Ronan shakes his head.  
"It is not. - he declares, confirming Peter's worry that things are going to become even crazier - I am here to give myself up. I told you." he points out, irritated.  
Peter is now almost completely baffled. Why can't the Kree make sense? He is starting to believe that he preferred him in full-blown killing mode.

"So, correct me if I am wrong. - he says cautiously - You have run away from the Xandarians just to let yourself be taken into our custody?"  
The Kree raises his gaze again. "Yes." he says.  
"That is nuts! - Rocket exclaims - This guy is nuts, Peter. Why don't we shoot him in the head and get done with it? I'm sure the Xandarians won't mind." he proposes.  
Attractive, but no, Peter thinks. He can talk tough, but he wouldn't be able to kill someone in cold blood, especially not someone who has surrendered. Rocket doesn't have those qualms, though. Better be clear.

"Not yet, Rocket. - he orders, then turns back towards Ronan - You! Why did you do something so idiotic?" he almost shouts.  
"Because you have taken me as your _haaq_ , not the Xandarians. This is where I need to be." the Kree replies with quiet determination.  
He is speaking in the Commercial Language, but there is a word Peter doesn't recognize. It must be Kree, a language which he doesn't know. His implants offer a translation, but Peter doubts it is the correct one. They suggest "spoils of war" or "war prize" as translations, neither of which makes sense in context.

"We didn't do any such thing!" Peter protests.  
"You did, when you brought me low. - the Kree insists - You said the words yourself, Star-Lord. You said that I was your prisoner and your responsibility!" he accuses. His eyes bore into Peter's own, feverish and full of raw, barely contained emotion.

Really? Seriously? Did the crazy blue dude organize a prison break for a matter of prerogatives?  
"I didn't mean it that way! - Peter protests - There was no need to make this whole mess. We didn't mind you staying with the Xandarians. No harm done, I mean..." he says, but he immediately realizes it is the wrong thing to say.  
"I do. - the Kree declares - I... I cannot live with what I have done. I am dishonoured, meaningless. I am searching for a way to atone for my crimes, and being confined in a Xandarian prison is not... It is not going to work. They don't care if I atone or not, they just care that they were seen being humane to me. They have no use for me. Staying with them would make my survival meaningless." he says, and Peter thinks he can see tears forming in his eyes.

"And how being our prisoner would help you atone?" Gamora asks.  
Ronan turns to reply, but surprisingly it is Drax that explains it for him.  
"By forcing him to humiliate himself with serving his enemies. - the Destroyer says - My people has a similar custom. Battle captives and criminals become the property of their captors." he explains, disentangling himself from Gamora.  
Peter nods to himself. Things are now starting to make sense.

"So you are asking us to take you as a slave, Accuser?" Drax asks advancing on the kneeling Kree.  
"No, I am not asking. I am begging you. - he replies, and prostrates himself to the ground at Drax's feet - Please! Allow me to serve you! Allow me to atone!" he pleads. Peter can hear the desperation in his words. It makes him feel almost sorry for the bastard.

Drax grabs the front of Ronan's jacket and pulls him to his feet with by brute force with one hand. The other is occupied by one of his knives, which is pointed at Ronan's throat. The Kree doesn't struggle, doesn't shy away.  
"Do you think that this will make me forgive you?" Drax growls. The knife nicks the Kree's skin. Black-blue blood wells out of the small wound. Ronan doesn't even seem to notice.  
"No... - he says quietly - I don't ask for your forgiveness, Drax the Destroyer. I cannot even forgive myself for what I have done." His voice breaks.  
"I can still hear their screams... - he says, and now he sounds like he is properly crying - They were not pitiful. They were agonizing to hear. They haunt me. I wish someone had killed me before I did something like that... I wish I had died in that fire..." he confesses, heartbroken.  
Drax lets him go and steps back. Ronan folds to the ground again, as if his legs cannot support him, clasping his arms around his chest as if he is trying to hold himself together. His gaze is lost in the distance, and his cheeks are streaked by tears. He doesn't seem very formidable at all, just exhausted, and very much broken.

Peter looks at Drax. He looks like he is going to cry too, Groot is bawling in sympathy, and, as for Gamora, she looks like she has been at it for a while. Her shoulders are shaken by quiet little sobs, and she is pressing a hand against her lips to prevent them from trembling.  
What is going on in there?  
"Please... - Ronan pleads again - Accept my servitude... Or end my suffering, at least. I cannot go back to Xandar. I can't bear it..."  
Kill or keep, Peter thinks. Why is life so difficult?

"Alright, blue sucker! - Rocket intervenes, pointing his huge gun at Ronan - Any last words?" he asks.  
"Rocket, NO!" Peter, Drax and Gamora shout in a little chorus.  
"What the hell, people?! - Rocket asks, frowning - Are you really thinking about keeping him?! You are as nuts as him! He's going to kill us all in our sleep!" he protests.  
"No, he is not." Peter retorts. He thinks that he is starting to understand the twisted logic of it all.

"You cannot harm us, can you? Not even to defend yourself. That's why you let Drax kick you around like a football" he says to the Kree, holstering his blasters.  
"Yes." Ronan replies, refusing to meet his eyes.  
"And you have to obey any orders we give you." Peter continues.  
Ronan acquiesces again.  
"Anything you ask me, I will do." he confirms.  
"Thought so. - Peter comments - Come on, bluebell. Stand up. We are going." he orders.  
Ronan raises a hopeful gaze towards him. "Does that mean that you accept my pledge?" he asks, as if he didn't really believe that they would.  
"That doesn't depend just on us. - Peter replies, feeling slightly bad when the hope disappears from those impossibly blue eyes - Listen, I can't make any promises. Just come with us, alright?" he adds, rubbing his eyes. The adrenaline is starting to fade and he feels horrendously tired.

The Kree acquiesces and tries to obey, but as soon as he manages to pull himself to his feet, he crumples back to the floor once more with a sharp cry and a grimace, obviously in pain. He presses a hand over his midriff, and when he takes it away his palm is coated in thick black-blue liquid.  
Blood.  
Ronan looks at it in surprise and curses softly under his breath.

"I didn't do it!" Drax exclaims.  
Peter ignores him. He has just noticed that the front of Ronan's hoodie is wet with blood.  
"Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" Peter thinks.  
He kneels next to the Kree and forcibly lifts his top. There is a large plaster stuck to his stomach, covering an old wound which probably had not finished healing yet. It is drenched with blood and a massive black bruise has spread around it. Peter has patched up enough people in his life to know that it looks an awful lot like an internal hemorrhage.

Meanwhile, Ronan must have realized how bad he is actually feeling and is almost collapsing to the ground.  
His skin is pale and sweaty, and he looks a lot worried for someone who didn't care about dying. He must have been running on adrenaline and stubbornness until then.

"Rocket! - Peter exclaims, switching to battle mode again - Get that doctor friend of yours here! Real quick! Like, yesterday!" he orders.  
"I'm on it!" Rocket exclaims, none too pleased by the state of things.  
"We have to move." he tells Ronan, grabbing the the ex-genocidal maniac by an arm. The Kree nods and tries to push himself to his feet.  
Peter helps him to stand on wobbly legs and starts to drag him to the Milano. Gamora grabs his other hand, and together they manage to get him into the ship and lay him down on the table of the common area.

By then, Ronan has almost passed out. His eyes close on their own and he is shivering helplessly.  
"Hang in there, bluebell!" Peter tries to reassure him, because damn it, the crazy Kree has put himself under their protection, and somehow it doesn't seem right for him to die like that.  
"Help is on the way. You'll be fine." Peter adds, instinctively squeezing his hand.  
Ronan looks his way long and hard, as if trying to figure out how much of his worry for him is genuine, how much he can trust Peter.

The world is really fucked up, Peter thinks, and he knows he is making it worse by giving the blue bastard hope, but he has actually said the words, even if he had never meant them that way, and at least for the moment, he intends to live by them. There will be time to discuss the situation later, for now his top priority is keeping Ronan alive.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: bucket-loads of angst, some gore (mostly implied), and some language.
> 
> Implied Star-Lord/Gamora established relationship.  
> And yes, the Kree have mostly Irish names, I couldn't help it. One of my football mates is a handsome Irish dude called Ronan and somehow the association stuck.
> 
> Enjoy!

Rocket's friend ends up performing emergency surgery on the Kree in what passes for their kitchen. There is not a lot of space in there in the best of circumstances, now, with the tall alien draped on the table it just seems awfully cramped.  
Rocket and Drax disappear as if by magic as soon as the doctor starts. Peter and Gamora end up having to assist him. They see much more that they had signed up for. Kree have blue innards too. Who would have thought?

Drax re-emerges once they are finished and transports a sedated Ronan to the newly installed detention facility. They roll out the sleeping mat and lay the prisoner down on it, covering him with a blanket.  
The doctor has said that Ronan is lucky to be even alive and has lost loads of blood. He will probably be out of commission for days, but Rocket insists and does not relent, so they end up chaining the Kree to the walls of the cell "for safety". Peter is not very happy about it, it seems like an abuse to him, but at least the chains are long enough for Ronan to move in his sleep if he needs to.

The group moves back to the common area. Peter scrubs the smears of black-blue blood away from the table and prepares coffee for everyone. They have much to discuss, but no one seems to be comfortable with starting, so they sit together in silence for a while, nursing their coffees.

"What a night..." Peter says, trying to jump-start the conversation.  
Drax and Rocket nod and grumble noncommittally, but don't elaborate. Gamora doesn't even tick. She is looking down at her mug of coffee as if it holds all the answers.  
Groot is not helping either. He has slipped fully into the dark phase of his daily cycle and is out cold, curled in his vase. He is even snoring slightly. Peter nudges him gently with a finger and the sapling repositions himself without even waking up. The snoring ceases.

"So, guys... - Peter plods on, taking another sip of his coffee - Any thoughts on what we should be doing with Crazy Smurf?"  
"We could kill him and space him in an asteroid field, not necessarily in this order." Rocket proposes, slurping his coffee. Even Drax gives him a horrified stare.  
"But you guys seem to have gone soft on him... so I am alright with just dumping him on Nova Prime's turf and running away as fast as possible." the sentient raccoon continues, waving a hand in the air despondently.  
"That is cruel, my furry friend." Drax objects.  
"Hey, I said I don't insist on killing him!" Rocket protests.  
Drax shakes his head. "The cruelty lies not in his death, but in preventing him from regaining his honour. - he explains - For a warrior it is a fate worse than death."

"There can't be anything worse than death! - Rocket exclaims - Because when you are dead, that's it! Game over! There is nothing you can do anymore." he says.  
"It is true, but..." Drax starts to say.  
"No buts! - Rocket interrupts him, slamming a hand on the table - I can't believe it! I mean, I know you guys had your moment of male bonding back in the parking lot, but you can't have fallen for the repentance trick!" he says, fur bristling on the back of his neck.  
Drax doesn't reply, he looks at his hands and remains silent.  
"Come on, dude! - Rocket insists - This is the oldest trick in the book! It should be disallowed, from how old it is! You can't fall for it!" he rants.  
"That guy is a nearly-unstoppable killer. He's a genocidal maniac! He nearly killed us all! - Rocket continues, seeing that everyone else is too busy brooding to respond - He hasn't repented! He is just trying to buy himself some time!" he declares.  
"Time for what, Rocket? - Peter asks wearily- All his men are dead. His people has left him to rot."  
"I don't know what for, but, guys! Let's be real! - Rocket objects - Do you really believe that he had no intentions of blowing Xandar? Do you really think that he has been made to do it?" he asks.

"I do." Gamora says quietly.  
"What?!" Rocket exclaims, turning sharply towards her.  
Gamora sighs and raises her eyes from the mug.  
"I said I do believe it." she confirms.  
Rocket looks at her like she has sprouted a second head.  
"You guys seem to always forget that I was a daughter of Thanos until not long ago."she continues.  
"Yeah, so what?" Rocket asks.  
"So I have been with the Mad Titan for years on end. I traveled with Ronan for over a year on Thanos' bidding. I know how Thanos works... I know how things came to pass..." she explains. Her eyes stray back to the mug.  
"For Thanos people are nothing but toys. He plays with each one of them. - she continues - He takes their loves and fears and uses them to push them to the brink of insanity, he twists them, he torments them, he uses them to do his bidding, and when they are broken, he discards them." she explains, and with every word she seems to become angrier and sadder.

"A couple of years ago, there was this guy, from a place called Asgard... - she narrates - He had found out that he had been kidnapped as a baby and used as political leverage by his adoptive father for all his life. He flipped the lid, wanted vengeance against his daddy. By the time Thanos had finished with him, the guy went to Terra with an army of Chitauri, set on wreaking havoc and capturing the Tesseract." she explains.  
"What?! - Peter exclaims - That's my home planet!"  
"They are safe.- Gamora reassures - Thanos had intelligence that a bunch of Terrans and an Asgardian managed to stop him and take the Stone to safety."  
Peter sighs in relief. He doesn't have very good memories of his time on Terra, apart from his mum, but it is still his home, and he strongly objects to aliens destroying it.  
"And what about the guy?" Rocket asks.  
Gamora shrugs. " In Asgard's deepest prison, I suppose." she replies.

Rocket shakes his head. "So daddy dearest's MO is to rile up angry young men and send them after stuff he wants?" he asks.  
"Pretty much. He needs the Stones to free himself from the pocket dimension where he is trapped. - she replies - The people he uses to retrieve them are just toys to him. And in Ronan and his men, he found the perfect toys. He just couldn't help himself." she adds.  
"Why? What made them so suitable?" Drax asks.  
"They were all seasoned warriors, but still innocent, in a way. So full of honour and thirsty for justice..." Gamora says wistfully, almost with longing.  
She shakes her her head. "So desperate and so angry... - she adds - They offered themselves to him, like lambs at the slaughter, in exchange for his help in their quest, and he took them. He used them, and pushed them until they became twisted shadows of what they were."  
Peter watches her talk, and realizes that her eyes are shining with tears.

"He commanded them to perform services for him, to raid this place or this other, to retrieve things for him. They were duty-bound to obey, and at first he only asked for honourable services. - she explains - But then he started raising the bar, asking them to destroy settlements and kill innocents. They had pledged themselves to him and couldn't deny him. There was no honour in what they were asked to do, but they would be dishonoured if they refused. I could see them die inside, little by little..." she continues, tears streaming down her face  
"It is not your fault, Gamora." Peter says, laying a hand on her shoulder.  
"Yes, it is, at least partly! - she sobs, shying away from the contact and hugging herself for protection - Because I was there! I watched him turn them into hollow-hearted killers! I watched him kill them inside and I did nothing! I was there all the time! I could have stopped them! I could have helped them resist! And yet I did nothing, because I didn't care enough, because I was so used to death and destruction that it didn't mean anything to me anymore!" she wails.  
There is a moment of silence.

"Were you with them when..." Drax asks timidly.  
Gamora nods, sobbing to herself.  
"I was there. - she confirms - We lost five officers that night, on the Dark Aster. They all committed suicide. They couldn't bear that torment any longer. I still remember their names, their faces... Aedhan, Drustan, Eoghan, Yael and Oisin. They were the youngest of the lot, barely more than cadets. Drustan was Korath's little brother. He had a massive crush on Nebula, but she never even ticked on it... They were just kids..." she narrates among sobs.  
Peter wishes he could help her, that he could hold her together with his arms, but this is something that has been festering in her soul for a long time, and now it needs out. She will feel better afterwards.

"And the rest of them, those who survived, they looked dead inside. Dark Aster was a ship of the dead, that night, and I helped Thanos kill them. - Gamora continues - Ronan didn't talk to anyone for nearly a week after that, he was so broken inside that I hurt to look at him." she reveals. Peter thinks he can imagine it. If he looked then anything like he had looked in the parking lot not long before, it would have been hard to watch.  
"That was Thanos' plan all along." Gamora continues relentlessly. The dam has broken and all the water must flow to the sea.  
"Ronan had been too strong-willed for the Mind Stone when he first came to him... But after that village... After that, Thanos could glue him back together as he wished. He made him into a weapon and pointed him at Xandar." she concludes.

"So are you saying that Thanos mind-fucked him into the Dark Side?!" Peter asks, feeling as if an electric shock has gone through him.  
Drax lifts a hand in the air like a kid with his teacher. "Star-Lord, what exactly do you mean with..." he starts to ask.  
"Oh no, I am not explaining _that_!" Peter exclaims, backing off. He should have a care about what metaphors he uses in front of Drax.  
"I wasn't going to ask about _that_! - Drax protests, shifting in colour under the tattoos - I wanted to know what the Dark Side is supposed to be." he clarifies.  
Rocket nods in approval, so Peter spends the next five minutes giving them a very abridged version of the Star Wars saga.  
"So you were referring Dark Side of one's inner self." Drax concludes at the end.  
Peter blinks a couple of times. "Yeah, I think so." he concedes.  
Drax nods to himself. "A true warrior knows the danger of losing oneself in his mission and becoming heartless." he declares.

"So you think that Thanos just went and made Crazy Smurf crazy? Just like that?" Rocket asks, steering clear from the Star Wars angle. Peter has the suspect that the topic will come out later, though. He will have to find a way of scavenging a copy of the VHS from somewhere.  
"It's more subtle than that, Rocket." Gamora replies wearily. Now the convulsive sobs have ceased, but she looks like she has not slept in ages, so tired that her green skin has acquired a grey-ish tinge.  
"Ronan was furious with the Xandarians, he wanted revenge, but he was not consumed by it. He was in control. - she explains - Thanos used the Mind Stone to bring forth his hate and stripped him of that control, letting his rage drive him, and suddenly the suggestion of destroying Xandar seemed so very appealing... What was an intimidation act became reality."

There is another long moment of silence. Peter reaches out and this time Gamora lets him hold her, burying her face into his shirt.  
"I should have stopped him, but I didn't care about Xandar. - she whispers - I was used to seeing things die because of Thanos. I only cared about getting out of there with my life..."  
She grabs his jacket and hugs him even closer, nearly squeezing the breath out of him.  
"It's OK, Gamora... It's alright. - Peter reassures, petting her hair - We know what Thanos did to you and your sister. It's not your fault. You did what you had to survive." he says but then a voice in his head starts buzzing.  
If Gamora is not to blame for the things she had done for Thanos, because she was coerced, if she can be forgiven, why should they elect themselves as judge, jury and executioner and condemn Ronan to a fate he considers worse then death? Why can't they give him a chance?  
Peter lays his chin on the top of Gamora's head and casts a long look to Drax. The Destroyer sighs and nods.  
"It seems that we are going to have to find a way to keep the Accuser in our custody." he rumbles.

Rocket sighs. "I don't see how it makes a difference. If the crazy blue dude is suicidal, staying in our company would not change things." he declares.  
"Let's put it this way, Rocket. - Peter proposes - What if next time they put you in prison they deactivated the implants that allow you to stand and talk? You could live, but it would be an unbearable life, right?" he asks. The horrified expression on Rocket's face says it all.  
"Being prisoner of the Xandarians would be almost like that for our blue friend there. - Peter continues - It will force him to live without something that makes him who he is and without hope of regaining it." he concludes.  
Rocket grinds his teeth together and snarls a bit, then his shoulders slump and he hangs his head.  
"Fine! - he exclaims - But I still don't like him!" he protests.  
"Neither do I, my furry friend." Drax agrees, patting the raccoon's head with one of his large hands.  
Peter doesn't like him either, he doubts anyone in the Galaxy likes Ronan, except maybe some die-hard Kree fanboys, but it doesn't change matters. This is about fairness, not about being friendly and cuddly.

As if on cue, the videocomm of the Milano goes off. Peter accepts the incoming call and is not very surprised to find out that the caller is none other than Nova Prime.  
"Let me guess, - Peter steals the first line - you have lost Ronan."  
The stern face of Nova Prime falls a little at his insight.  
"How do you know?!" she exclaims in surprise.  
Peter sighs. "We found him, or rather, he found us." he replies.  
"Are you all in one piece?" she asks. Maybe she is genuinely worried for them, or maybe she is just very good ad pretending. Politicians, you never know.  
"We are alright. Our mutual friend is a bit worse for the wear, but he'll survive." Peter volunteers.  
Nova Prime sighs in evident relief. "Thanks for dealing with the situation so swiftly. - she says - I'll send the best officers in the Nova Corps to collect him as soon as possible." she declares.  
Peter grimaces. There is no easy way of saying what he needs to say. She is not going to like it, but he can't chicken out now.

"I am afraid that there is a problem with that." he says.  
"A problem?" Nova Prime repeats, arching an eyebrow.  
"Yeah, well... it seems like we have stumbled upon a misunderstanding of cultural practices." he says, trying to muddy the waters.  
Nova Prime looks at him expectantly.  
Peter starts feeling heat creep along his neck. She reminds him of his primary school headmistress. He was slightly terrified of her, back then.

"I know it is nuts, but apparently, since he surrendered to us on Xandar, that would make him our prisoner, and he cannot in good conscience hand himself over to anyone else. - Peter explains, feeling like he is grasping at straws - And what's funny is that Drax's people have a similar custom, and it turns out that the only way for the deaths of his wife and daughter to be properly avenged is to have Ronan stay with us as our slave, sort of. Drax insists very much, I have to tell you." he adds lamely.  
Luckily this time Drax catches on and nods vigorously. "Their spirits will not be satisfied if he doesn't make amends with his service." he confirms, dead serious.

"I am sorry, but it is not possible. - Nova Prime replies - The Nova Empire cannot be seen to lose custody of such an important prisoner. And it cannot be seen to condone cruel and unusual punishments." she explains.  
"Oh, yeah? - Rocket interjects, hackles rising - And I suppose if they don't see you, everything is game..." he spits.  
He has only recently been recognized as sentient by the Xandarians and doesn't have very fond memories of their treatment of him before that. Actually, neither has Peter. The Xandarians like to present themselves as cosmopolitan and tolerant, but in truth they are quite parochial and racist against anyone who is not from the Empire, Terrans included. They consider their way of living the best one and consider everyone else in the Galaxy inferior or misguided. Even of he has fought for them, Peter does not like them.

"Just what do you think we would do to him, madam? - Peter asks, rather indignant - We are not a bunch of psychos. The worst we can do is to have him clean the ship and cook. Manual labour is what tradition mandates for _haaq_." he clarifies.  
"Well, Peter, that's cruel and unusual in itself. - Rocket interjects, giggling to himself - We haven't cleaned the Milano since we moved in. But at least it is not a Jackson Pollock any longer..."  
"Thanks for sharing, Rocket!" Peter chides him. Thankfully Nova Prime cannot know what they mean with that.  
The raccoon gives him a smile that uncovers his sharp, pointy teeth.

"It would be a very amusing sight, I am sure. - Nova Prime interjects coolly - But I am afraid it is still not possible. It is an important matter of image. We can't give the rest of the Galaxy the impression that we cannot keep control of our prisoners. It would give the Kree some room to wriggle away from abiding to the treaty."  
"Then don't. Make it look intentional. - Gamora chimes in - Make an event of it. We are your "champions", so to speak. Formally hand Ronan over to us in accordance to the traditions of his people. Make it public. This is a Kree cultural practice, they will understand it and respect it. We will get him out of your hair, and you will maintain your façade of respect towards the traditions of other cultures. Everyone will be happy." she proposes, and a bit of energy returns to her face.  
This is important for her. In a way, by doing this she is seeking atonement too.

Peter can see Nova Prime thinking about it, working the different political angles, seeing if she can truly exploit that proposal to boost Xandar's image and further demoralize the Kree.  
While the Kree are so attached to their ideals to come across as utterly, cruelly inflexible, Peter suspects that for the Xandarian government the lofty ideals they always speak of are but a thin veneer to disguise their ruthless practicality.  
"I might not know him a lot, - Peter chimes in trying to tip the balance - but it seems to me that our mutual friend is stubborn and resourceful enough to try again, if you take him in custody once more. And maybe next time he won't try to do the honourable thing and hand himself over." he adds giving her a knowing look.  
Nova Prime grimaces. Peter sees an opening and dives in.

"Maybe next time he'll go back home. And wouldn't that upset your plans for the pacification of the Kree?" he adds feigning innocence.  
"Are you implying that the Nova Corps cannot ensure the custody of that terrorist?" Nova Prime asks, nostrils flaring in outrage?  
"I am saying that you might have to resort to restrictive measures and forms of coercion that might be unpopular with the public." he replies suavely.  
Nova Prime gives him a hard stare. "And wouldn't you need to do the same?" she asks.  
Peter shakes his head. "Nope. - he replies - He is honor-bound to stay with us. He will remain willingly. That's the beauty of it." he explains smugly.  
Nova Prime is thinking hard and fast and Peter mentally encourages her, as if he could give her a nudge in the right direction.  
"I think it is totally messed up, but hey! Some people in the Galaxy are that weird." he comments cheerfully, giving Drax a playful glance.  
The Destroyer just shrugs. He is used to be considered weird.

"Then you guarantee that the prisoner would be kept under control in humane, decent conditions?" Nova Prime asks, raising a delicate eyebrow.  
Peter looks at the others before replying, because he knows this is going to be binding and that the Xandarians are going to be after their arses if things go pear-shaped.  
Drax nods, and Gamora does too, her eyes hard and shining. Rocket rolls his eyes, sighs, facepalms and bangs his head on the table, then finally nods too.  
"I guess we do." Peter replies.  
"Then we have a deal. - Nova Prime declares - You can keep the madman, if you are happy with it. Come back to Xandar, and bring back the items he appropriated. The PR team will work out a suitable ceremony, and once that's done we can get back to our normal business." she instructs flatly.  
"Uh... Alright." Peter agrees, wrong-footed by her practicality once more. She doesn't even give him enough time to say farewell before cutting the call.

"Well, that was easier than I had imagined." Peter comments, feeling slightly light-headed from the adrenaline withdrawal and the lack of sleep.  
No one seems much in the mood to celebrate. There will be time for that later.  
Now the only thing Peter Quill wants is to sleep for at least twelve hours.

His own body disregards his wishes, though. Peter finds himself awake only a few hours later, and unable to go back to sleep despite the warm body of Gamora snuggled close to him in the bed and despite how tired he is.  
He gets up and throws some clothes on, then pads to the holding cell.

Even if the doctor said that he would be unconscious for a lot of time, Peter is not surprised to find that Ronan is awake.  
Blue eyes zero in on him, as if the Kree is trying to pry his secrets out of him just by staring at him. Even covered in bruises, spread-eagled and tied up to the wall like a character in a cheap porn, the Kree still manages to look menacing and dignified.

"Hey buddy..." Peter greets him, sliding to the padded floor of the cell, close to the prisoner, but not close enough that he can grab him. He doesn't think he would, but safety first.  
"I told you that you'd make it." he adds when he obtains no response.  
"You were true to your word." Ronan comments, sounding slightly surprised.  
"Of course I was!" Peter replies, deeply offended.  
"You could have easily let me die. It was close... - the Kree insists - If I just bled out, no one would have been able to blame you and your people. Things like that happen on battlefields. You would have been free." he says calmly.  
"Sorry, bluebell, but we take our responsibilities a bit more seriously than that. - Peter declares, weirded out once more by his matter-of-fact attitude - You'd better get used to it." he adds teasingly.  
Ronan's eyes widen in surprise. "You have accepted my pledge?!" he says, looking torn between hope and diffidence.  
Peter nods vigorously. "The Nova have agreed to the arrangement. - he announces - You'll have it your way. I suspect you always do." he adds playfully.

The Kree relaxes so suddenly that it looks as if he has fainted in relief. He blinks rapidly, he must be nearly crying, and mutters something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like a prayer.

"There is a catch though." Peter says. He doesn't want to break the man's good moment, but it is better to set everything straight from the start. This way he will have more time to adjust to the situation.  
"What is it?" Ronan asks.  
"The only way to have them agree to this was to let them make a ball of it. - Peter explains - There will be some sort of ceremony to mark your passage in our custody."  
Ronan watches him in silence. His moment of weakness has passed and now his stare is as impassive as it ever was.  
"We'll vet it and try to keep the humiliation to the minimum, but there is no way out of it." Peter adds, feeling oddly inadequate in his attempts to take charge of his prisoner.  
"It does not matter. - Ronan declares - Let them do whatever they want. I do not care. I can take it." he adds defiantly.  
He thinks he deserves it, Peter realizes. Gamora's words come back to his mind.

"Listen, bluebell..." he starts awkwardly. He doesn't know how to say it, but he cannot stand by and watch him perform self-harm by proxy because of something that is not entirely his fault.  
"Gamora told us... she told us what happened." he says.  
"Did she?" Ronan comments, not particularly impressed.  
"Yeah... I mean, she told us about the way Thanos played you all and made you do things... - he clarifies - Don't be too hard on yourself. It is not all your fault." he adds sympathetically.  
"It is instead, Terran. - Ronan retorts - He exploited our anger, twisted our honour. I was the leader. I should have seen it, I should have put an end to it. I should have been strong, and protected my men. But I was weak and desperate, instead. I let him twist us." he adds angrily. There is still a lot of anger in him, but it is mostly directed at himself.

"Thanos has the Mind Stone. He used it on you after you... after you finished with Drax's village. - Peter reveals - That is how he made you nearly destroy Xandar." he adds, but somehow he doesn't think it would help.  
As expected, the Kree shakes his head.  
"It does not matter. - he says - I had already reneged on the values that had guided me for my whole life, at that point. Getting what I wanted had become more important to me than acting justly." he confesses ruefully.  
"I did this to myself, Star-Lord. _That_ is the truth, and I know it." he adds after a moment of silence.  
Most people try to make excuses for themselves. He does not. He is as inflexible and intransigent with himself as he is with the others. Peter cannot help admiring him at least a bit for it.

"I am sorry..." he starts, but doesn't manage to finish the sentence.  
"Don't you dare pity me, Star-Lord! - Ronan growls, tensing as if he is trying to sit up - Don't you fucking dare!" he threatens.  
Peter doesn't remember hearing him swear before, but now the Kree is so deeply upset that his eyes shine with tears and he is practically trembling in rage.  
"I don't. - Peter says wearily, leaning back and lifting his hands to placate him - I am sorry that so many lives were ruined because of Thanos. I mourn for all. That is it." he adds.  
Ronan slumps down on the bedroll again, breathing harshly.  
"Leave me alone, please..." he whispers.

Peter does, he doesn't want to see the proud Kree lose it again, knowing that nothing he can say or do would comfort him.  
He would be just an intruder and he doesn't fancy that. Ronan deserves at least a bit of dignity.  
He pads back to his room, instead, and slips back under the covers next to Gamora, but sleep is still long in coming.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: some angst, overtones of BDSM.
> 
> Over at FF.net someone pointed out that it didn't seem right for Ronan to be swearing in English. They're right, it does not, and in fact, he isn't.  
> No one of the characters has been speaking any English whatsoever in this fic so far.  
> They are speaking whatever international language is spoken in the MCU.  
> Henceforth, I'm going to call this language Trader's Tongue or Trader's for short. It is supposed to be the "lingua franca" of the setting, that is the langauge used for international commerce, diplomacy and travel. Role-wise,it is a bit like English, or like Latin used to be during the Middle Ages, but it is neither English nor Latin.  
> All well-travelled or well-educated characters know Trader's, and in addition, they also know the languages from their own planets.
> 
> I hope this makes it clearer to everyone
> 
> Enjoy!

The Xandarians insist to have the ceremony performed as soon as possible.  
Ronan couldn't be more in agreement. He wants to get over with it and get on with the new phase of his life.

So, as soon as the bruises have faded (the Xandarians wouldn't want for anyone to think that he has been abused), he finds himself walking down the most central avenue of Xandar town, escorted by a cadre of guards and with his hands tied at his back.

He is barefoot and wearing clothes chosen by the staff of Nova Prime according to their distorted idea of what ceremonial Kree clothes look like. They must have looked up archaic art, so he has ended up wearing a long pleated kilt, tied at the waist with a wide, decorated sash, all in white, and nothing else.  
The cloth is new, crisp linen, the folds starched in sharp lines. His head is uncovered, and there is a lot more flesh on display than he would have liked. No one has dressed like that in the Kree Empire for at least a thousand years. Ronan doesn't just feel ridiculous, he feels under-dressed, exposed, and the eyes of the multi-coloured crowd standing on both sides of the avenue watch him hungrily. They all want to catch a glimpse of the vanquished enemy.

Even though his bruises have faded, he is still far from restored. The scar on his stomach is still black, raised, and rather painful, and he is still weak from the loss of blood.  
They climb the raised platform where Nova Prime and the rest of the Xandarian government are waiting. Ronan is grateful when the guards stop and part, leaving him to face the Xandarian government.  
He sinks to his knees, as agreed. He doesn't think he would have managed to stand for much longer anyway.

Nova Prime barely looks his way. She starts her speech, instead. Ronan intentionally zones out, disconnecting himself from his surroundings so that her words become a hushed drone. He is sure that she is talking about Xandarian values and the superiority of Xandarian civilization. He doesn't have the stomach for that, especially as he knows first-hand that the key principles of their government are not really justice and virtue, but the pursuit of strategic economic interests and plausible deniability.

The speech goes on and on. Ronan concentrates on the pattern of golden threads in Nova Prime's stole of office, making a private game of following each thread from end to end. He wonders if the design is symbolic. If it is, he cannot imagine what it should stand for.

When it is finally over, the crowd explodes into a loud cheer. Ronan switches his attention back to his surroundings.  
Nova Prime is holding something in her hands, something that looks like a thick metallic arc.  
She lifts a hand and two guards hold him by his shoulders. Nova Prime places the arc around his neck and snaps it closed. It is a restraining collar.  
He should have imagined.

One of the guards attaches a chain to the ring riveted into the front of the collar, and hands the chain over to Nova Prime. She takes it and holds it proudly, looking down at him with a haughty, domineering expression.  
Ronan meets her eyes and refuses to look down.  
"You are not my mistress." he thinks defiantly. He can see a spark of anger light in her light-coloured eyes. She glares at him, willing him to submit, but he won't give her that satisfaction. He will submit to the Guardians only.

It takes only a moment for him to start feeling a firm pressure against his windpipe. Nova Prime is clenching something in her free hand. Ronan bets it is a remote for the restraining collar.  
He doesn't look down. She can't hurt him in any noticeable way while they are in public, it would defeat all her "humane treatment of prisoners" routine. He can defy her for a while longer, he tells himself.  
The pressure increases steadily, making it harder for him to breathe, and then cutting his air supply almost completely. Dark spots start to cloud his vision, but he doesn't back down. He keeps looking straight at her.  
Her pupils are dilated, her nostrils flare with her quickened breaths, and a hint of colour has appeared on her pale face. She doesn't seem angry any longer, though. How strange...  
The realization of what is going on hits him in a flash: Nova Prime is getting aroused by their little fight for dominance.  
Ronan finds the notion deeply unsettling. He is too embarrassed to look at her any longer, and lowers his gaze, conceding.  
As soon as he does that, the pressure disappears and he can breathe freely once more.

Nova Prime yanks the chain, signalling to him that it is time to move. She leads him a few steps away, to where the Guardians are waiting. Ronan kneels once more. He keeps his head down for his true masters and can only see their feet and lower legs, but the clinking of the chain tells him that he is being handed over.

"I give this man to you. - Nova Prime announces - Treat him humanely and according to all virtues." she adds and Ronan has to stifle a laugh. He has just realized how horribly like a traditional marriage ceremony this is looking, only he is the bride, and all the Guardians are the grooms. He wonders whether it is just a coincidence, or the Nova know more about the traditions of taking and keeping _haaq_ than they have so far shown.

A warm hand presses against his chin, forcing him to look up. Instinctively, he closes his eyes, trying to avoid disrespecting his masters. There is a sigh.  
"Look at us, Ronan of House Danu." Gamora orders.  
Ronan obeys, rather surprised. He has not been called so since he was fifteen. He has always been only the Accuser ever since his investiture.  
He and his grandfather were the last two members of his noble House. Now that he is _haaq_ , House Danu is no more.  
Gamora is looking at him sternly, but her sternness is tempered by some sort of sympathy.

"Do you pledge to serve our family in all things to the best of your abilities, until you have fully atoned your deeds against us?" Drax asks solemnly.  
"I do." Ronan replies, trying to keep his voice loud and clear.  
"Then this is no longer necessary." Star-Lord chimes in, kneeling in front of him to detach the chain from his collar.  
The Terran rises and steps behind him. Ronan hears a knife slide out of its sheath, and the ropes binding his wrists fall to the ground.  
"And neither is this." he adds, retaking his position in front of him.

"Rise, Ronan of House Danu. - Gamora orders - Take your place among us."  
She holds out her hand to him. He hesitates only a moment before taking it and letting her help him to his feet.  
Gamora smiles gently and signals for him to take his place behind her.  
Star-Lord hands him a white hooded cloak and he gratefully dons it, hiding as much as he can in its folds. The cloth is soft and warm. He represses a shiver. Only now he realises how cold he has been feeling during the ceremony.  
Star-Lord discreetly pat him on the back and winks, trying to reassure him.

As he had said to him the first night, the Guardians take their responsibilities seriously, and somehow, even if they are not Kree and know nothing about the traditions of his people, they have realized that, while it is his duty to serve them, it is their duty to protect him. They do it as if it is natural to them.  
Their protection makes him feel safe, and gives him the strength to stand straight for the rest of the ceremony, ignoring the angry, spiteful looks the Nova officers are giving him.

Maybe he has been too quick to judge the Guardians based on his assumptions about non-Kree, he thinks as he follows them to their little, colourful ship and into his new life. Maybe they will treat him right.  
Even though he knows he doesn't deserve any sort of respite, the idea comforts him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: lots of angst, slight cultural misunderstandings, language, PTSD - a panic attack. 
> 
> It may be triggering - you have been warned!!!

His first impression is confirmed over and over during the first few weeks of his life as a _haaq_.  
The Guardians are rash, loud, disorganized and undisciplined, they are often rude to each other and to other people, and their ship is filthy and messy, but they are not the honour-less barbarians that he had imagined them to be. Obviously it is not like being _haaq_ to another Kree House would be, but it is not terrible as it could be.

Even though he is their property now, the Guardians treat him with respect, and try their hardest not to humiliate him further. They have never beaten him yet, not even once.

He is still sleeping in the holding cell, but that's because there is no room anywhere else on the ship, and they have not chained him ever since the ceremony.  
The collar has stayed, but they never use it to restrain him, even if Nova Prime has given them the remote. He has not done anything worth restraining, yet, but still...  
They hold absolute power over him, but exert the utmost moderation in using it. It is strange how they spontaneously act in accordance to Pama's teachings even if they don't know them.  
They are nothing like the Xandarians. They are much better.

The most the Guardians have done, is giving him "ground rules" as if he was a young child in need of house-training.  
They have given him clothes, normal ones, with long sleeves and a hood, to allow him to cover himself, and even shoes.  
Some masters don't, fearing that their _haaq_ would try to escape if they had the chance. The Guardians seem to trust him, instead. They even give him leave to perform some physical activity when they are planet-side, so that he can keep healthy and reasonably fit.  
They confide in his honour, in spite of what he has done. He is immensely grateful for that.

Their life is semi-nomadic and simple. The Guardians don't need much in terms of service. He does what he can, he tries to make himself useful.  
Most of his time, he spends scrubbing the ship clean. It is amazing how filthy they have let it become. It is nothing that soap and scourer cannot solve, though. It is a bit like when he was a cadet and he and his classmates took turns to scrub clean the classes and the halls of the Academy, only it is always his turn.  
He tackles one room at a time, and scrubs it until it is so clean that the Guardians could use the metal fittings as mirrors and eat straight from the floor, then moves to the next the following day.  
When they land somewhere, he scrubs the outside too, revealing the bright orange and blue paint hidden under layers of dirt.

When he is not scrubbing, he cooks, cleans the dishes, repairs odds and ends that have been left in disrepair or looks after the plant-child.  
At first the Guardians tease him a bit about his cooking, which to begin with is limited to reheating canned food and other kinds of ready meals. He learns quickly, though, and even though he can't cook anything fancy, at least the food he prepares is edible, which is more than what can be said about the results of Rocket's cooking.

The Guardians seem satisfied by his service. He cannot help feeling proud of it. It is the only kind of pride he has left.  
It is evident however, that the Guardians are not used to having servants, not just _haaq_ , but any kind.  
A good servant should be discreet, unobstrusive. When he finishes his chores, he tries to make himself scarce, retreating to the cell, but they do not allow him to do so. If he disappears, they come looking for him, they inquire if he is alright and order him back to the common spaces, as if he was a real member of the crew.  
Likewise, they insist for him to take his meals with them, at the table, try to drag him into their conversations and even force him to pick the radio station sometimes.  
It is altogether too much honour for the likes of him, but as much as he tries to dissuade them, his efforts are vain, and they keep treating him much better than he deserves, even if its inclusion in their lives is clearly putting a strain in their relationship.

There is tension in the air, and that easy camaraderie he has witnessed the night of his second capture is stifled by his presence.  
Even though they trust him to uphold his pledge, he is not their friend, actually, they hardly know him. They don't know what to say to him, and though they try, the conversations seem always a bit contrived and fall to the wayside quite quickly, leaving them to deal with uncomfortable silences.

That is only a minor inconvenience, though. Overall, his new life is pleasant. Too pleasant even.  
The Guardians take good care of him, and he recovers fully from all injuries. He has nothing to worry about apart from what to cook the following day, and nothing to demonstrate to anyone. He doesn't recall it ever happening since he was six.  
In spite of himself, he feels safe and relaxed.

Paradoxically, though, his nightmares become worse and worse with every passing night, as strong and detailed as they were when he was in his first years of Academy.  
He no longer dreams only of the fire that took his family, but also of Drax's village, and of all the people that Thanos had ordered him to kill.

The subject does not matter though, he deals with them the same way he used to when he was a child. He tries to exhaust himself during the day and meditates before going to bed, trying to steer his dreams towards more pleasant paths.  
Like then, these two methods help very little, and he has to gag himself with a piece of cloth every night, so that when the nightmares overcome him and he wakes up screaming, he won't shame himself by waking anyone else.  
The padded walls and floor of the cell help, and no one seems to be the wiser.  
He doesn't want his masters to know his weakness, he tries his hardest for them not to know.  
Eventually, they end up knowing anyway, but, in hindsight, it is a good thing for everyone.

One of the strangest things about the Guardians, is the importance of music in their daily life. They listen to some kind of tune all the time on the ship, and Star-Lord even has a strange portable device that he uses to listen to his tunes when he is planet-side. It looks remarkably primitive, but the Terran is clearly attached to it.  
Ronan soon learns that it was a parting gift from Star-Lord's deceased mother, and that he still listens to it in her honour. Honouring her is also the main the reason why he always seems to prefer listening to a limited set of tunes.  
Terrans have very strange funerary customs, he decides, but, to be honest, even he remembers fondly his mother's favourite tune, the one she used to sing to him and Rory as a lullaby.

Star-Lord's tunes are the ones the Guardians listen to most frequently, as they seem to please everyone, but sometimes they get bored of them and turn on the radio.  
It turns out that Star-Lord, Gamora and the sapling are all fond of lively, dancy tunes, while Drax likes complex orchestral compositions and chorals, and Rocket favours brash and angry songs with a hard, fast beat.  
Much to his surprise, his own tastes oscillate between Drax's and Rocket's, depending on his mood. It doesn't take long for him to start having favourite bands and songs. He had never had the time for such frivolities before.

It turns out that the ship he has stolen on Xandar actually belongs to one of his new favourite bands, who have made a song about the event.  
They haven't asked for their clothes back, so he has washed the blood off them and still wears them sometimes. The garish leggings apparently used to belong to their frontman, and are supposed to be "famously suggestive".  
Ronan doesn't understand why, since apart from the colour they are not very different from the ones he used to wear under his armour. Maybe mainstream galactic culture frowns upon men who wear tight clothes, who knows?  
The Guardians don't seem to mind him wearing them, though. Star-Lord and Gamora give him strange looks sometimes when he does, but they never openly comment on it or chide him, so he just lets go.

When all hell breaks loose, it is his turn to pick the radio.  
They are flying not far from Kree space, and he does feel a bit homesick from time to time, so he asks his masters the authorization to look for Kree transmissions. The Guardians not only agree, but actively encourage him. They are curious about the music of his people.  
Ronan can't help but be pleased about it and fiddles with the tuner, until he eventually finds the main Kree radio station.  
They are broadcasting a polyphonic hymn to Pama, one of the most solemn and majestic ones. It is one of his favourite and a pleasant shiver runs through him.  
Judging from the amazing acoustics, if he had to bet, he would say it had been recorded in the new Great Temple of Pama, on Hala.  
He has never been in there since the accident, he can't bring himself to cross that threshold. The closest he has got are the gardens, but some of his colleagues had told him that it is even more beautiful that the one the Xandarians destroyed and that the concerts they sometimes hold in there are magnificent.  
He closes his eyes and lets himself soak in the music. He has is happy to be able to share something so beautiful with his masters, and he feels proud that they are liking it, that maybe they are realizing that his people are good for something else apart from fighting and smiting people.

When the music stops, no one is in a hurry to change station. Ronan hopes that there will be at least another song, but his hopes are thwarted.  
The anchor starts talking and it is a voice he knows.

It is Derdriyu, one of the high priestesses of Pama. Like him, she is a survivor of the Great Temple, only the fire took her eyes as well as her family. She lost her sight, but she found her true vocation as a servant of Pama. Ever since the reconstruction of the Temple, she has rarely left it. Ronan has never understood how she can stay there, with the ghosts of the dead all around. He admires her, she is much stronger than he could ever be, and she has always been a guiding light for all the survivors of the Great Fires.

"With this song, we want to remember all our brothers and sisters who have lost their lives in the fire of the Great Temple twenty-five years ago" Derdriyu is saying.  
Ronan feels disoriented. Is it already _that_ day? He has lost track of time since Xandar. How could he forget the Day of Remembrance, though?  
Guilt rises in his heart, erasing all the peaceful feelings the hymn had kindled in him.

"Even though the Council has forbidden public commemorations for fear of anti-Xandarian disorders, we have not forgotten you." the priestess continues.  
Wait, what?! They have forbidden the commemorations?! What about the families of the dead?! What about the survivors?! They cannot cancel the memory of such a huge, public tragedy at a whim, to spare the sensibilities of the Xandarians!  
Except that they can, and his deeds have given the Council the perfect excuse.

"They say it is all Number Nine's fault, and yes, it is, and yes, it is hard to forgive him now, seeing what has come out of his deeds, but brothers and sisters, he once was one of us." Derdriyu argues, her voice soft and nearly breaking. Ronan realizes that she is talking about him.  
He is Number Nine, the ninth last survivor of the Great Temple.

"He suffered with us, he fought with us. He was our champion once. He wanted justice for us all. - she continues softly, but every word is like a knife stabbed through his heart - For all the wrong he has done, don't be rash in your judgement of him, not as the Council has been in striking him from the rolls."  
"Oh, Pama..." Ronan thinks, and his heart freezes in dread. They have struck him from the rolls...  
Did Fiyero come up with that on his own, or did the Xanxarians nudge him?  
Either way, it is done. He no longer exists for the Kree government, he never has, and it is forbidden even to speak his name. Derdriyu is taking a risk in even alluding to him.  
Even if he somehow manages to atone and survive, he will never be allowed to go home. Now truly he has nothing left.

"Pama teaches us forgiveness, and, while we cannot forgive him now, and maybe we won't be able to do so for a long time, he is still our brother. It would be unfair to deny it. - Derdriyu goes on with her sermon - Whatever demon grew in his soul, it could be growing in yours too. That is why we pray Pama to give us the strength to do true justice and act with mercy..." she explains. A prayer starts, but he hasn't any strength left to listen to it.

He knew it could come to that. He knows he deserves it, but the idea that the Council, that Nova Prime's man, has just formally erased him from existence, is too much for him to bear. They are making a bogeyman out of him, using what he has done to silence any remaining opposition to the treaty and to the influence of Xandar. He has sullied even the Remembrance of the Great Fires, something he has always held even more sacred than Pama itself.

He has thought that he could bear any punishment, but this... this is unbearable.  
Suddenly, he cannot bear to stand there any longer. He cannot bear to know that his masters know.  
Rocket, Drax and Gamora haven't reacted to the sermon, probably they don't know the Kree language, but Star-Lord is looking his way with worry etched on his face. His translator implants... probably they can only provide a basic rendering of the meaning, but it is enough.

"Hey, buddy! Are you alright? What was that about?" he asks, trying to grab his wrist.  
Ronan jerks away. He doesn't want to be touched.  
"I... I ask your leave to retire." he manages to spit out. His voice trembles pitifully.  
Star-Lord hesitates, casts a glance to Gamora and then nods. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Ronan does not hear him, he is already stumbling away.

If they had been planet-side, he would have run until collapse, trying to somehow escape the truth. As it is, he can only make a few steps down the corridor to his cell and slam the door behind him to get away from it all.  
He curls into a ball in one corner of the cell. He is trembling. His heart races in his chest, and his whole body is shaking. He can hardly breathe and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know what is happening to him, and it terrifies him. It is so bad that he thinks that he is going to die, like that, crying in a corner like a pathetic, frightened child, without honour, without meaning.

It would have been better for him to burn in the Temple with his family, at least he would be with them in the underworld, but now they have erased him, and he has lost them a second time. He has no one now...

And as if called by the memories of his loved ones, the fire visits him once more, and unlike a dream from which he can wake, he cannot escape this time. It seems so real... Maybe it is real, maybe he is dead and this is hell, and his punishment is to be forever trapped in that moment, when he burns, and falls, and loses everything he has ever loved...

Something hits him in the face. Hard.  
Ronan opens his eyes and takes a deep, gasping breath, reaching out for whatever has hit him.  
He is sitting against the wall of his cell, tightly wedged in a corner. He has vague memories of how he got there. His left cheek stings from the force of the slap Star-Lord has given him.  
He blinks. What is Star-Lord doing there? Why is he so worried, he asks himself.  
His thoughts are sluggish and he feels cold... terribly cold, like he can't get warm anymore.

"Stay with me, buddy. - Star-Lord orders - Stay with us, alright?" he adds.  
Ronan nods weakly, teeth chattering.  
"Jeez, bluebell! - the Terran exclaims with evident relief - You were so far gone that I thought we had lost you..." he adds.  
Ronan manages to move enough to turn his head and see that Gamora, Drax and Rocket are hovering near the door. They also look worried.

The sapling is there too. He is pulling himself out of his vase by force, and as soon as his roots touch the ground, he rushes towards him and Star-Lord, and, without hesitation, wraps himself around Ronan's shoulders, as if trying to keep him warm.  
The sapling mutters a continuous, low stream of "I am Groot". Ronan doesn't need to understand his language to know that he means to comfort him. Somehow, some of the cold fades away.

"Seriously, bluebell! What the hell happened in there?! - Star-Lord asks - What was that woman saying? What is the Great Fire?" he continues frantically. So many questions, so much worry...  
Why they all worry so much about him?  
"I am Groot..." the sapling says, nuzzling against his face.  
"You're right, little one... - Ronan thinks - It's because they care." He doesn't understand why they care, or how he has finally understood what the plant child is saying, but when Star-Lord says "Please, tell us what the hell is going on! We need to know it, otherwise we can't help you!", he does tell them.

He tells them about the "surgical strike" of the Great Temple, about his family, about the pain and the anguish and the loss, about being forbidden to speak about it, and then about his quest for justice, for closure, and finally about his failure.  
He tells them everything, even things he has never told anyone else. It is as if once opened, the floodgates of confession cannot be closed until everything has flowed out of him.

Halfway through his sobbing ramblings, Gamora steps in and comes to sit at his side, an arm wrapped around his shoulders in an awkward one-armed hug.  
Star-Lord does the same soon after, sitting on the other side of him, then Rocket sits in Gamora's lap. Drax is the last to move and sits at Gamora's other side.  
By the time he has finished talking, Ronan doesn't feel cold any longer. Their presence and support have warmed him like nothing else could.

The silence after his confession lasts only a few moments, before Gamora starts talking in turn. She speaks of the parents she barely remembers, of wanting to be a dancer, and of how Thanos had beaten and tortured that desire out of her. She speaks of killing, of being unable to feel anything at all, until she met the Guardians. She speaks of her guilt and her shame at the things Thanos has made her do.

She cries, and Ronan finds himself returning the awkward hug. He has never paused to think about her and Nebula's life, when they were living together in the Dark Aster. To him they were just two more competent officers, and most likely spying on him for Thanos. He has never imagined what a horror their life must have been, and yet it is her who says she is sorry. It is her who apologizes for letting him do the things he has done, for not stopping him.  
Little Groot flows from her shoulders to her lap and hugs her and Rocket, while the Raccoon lists an impressive series of physically impossible things he will do to Thanos once they get the drop on him.

The little furry loudmouth is trembling in rage and starts to cry too.  
He speaks of how he has come to be, as a test subject of a group of scientists trying to build a perfect, inconspicuous, infiltration agent. He speaks of the pain of his making, of the horror, of the loneliness of being one of a kind, despised and belittled by all.  
"But now I am not alone any longer. - he says - You are my fucking family and I will fucking destroy whoever harms you! D'you hear me? Anyone! No matter what!" he shouts between sobs, gripping Gamora's top in a death grip and burying his face against her middle.

"I hear you, Rocket Raccoon. - Drax says, sniffling - And I likewise vow to do so. You are the only thing that has kept me from losing myself to the Dark Side after the death of my family." he declares.  
The Destroyer speaks about his pain and the emptiness that had taken over him once they were gone, and Ronan understands it all too well, because Drax's suffering mirrors his own perfectly.  
How could have he inflicted that pain on someone else so wantonly? And only to preserve his honour as a warrior?  
How could have he thought it was a fair exchange? How could have he thought it would be acceptable because they were just non-Kree savages?  
They were people, flesh and blood, like him, just with different colours and customs.  
He had had everything wrong on that subject. His whole people has it wrong! He wishes he could go back and tell them. He wishes he could somehow fix this.

Star-Lord shifts around, forcing the entire group to rotate slightly, so that he can hug Drax too, like Gamora is doing. Rocket and Groot are trapped in the middle of them, but they don't seem to mind, upon the contrary, the raccoon is finally relaxing into Gamora's hold.

"I know how you guys feel... - Star-Lord whispers, stroking Drax's tattooed back as the Destroyer sobs - When my mum died, I felt the same." he reveals.  
Taken by the confession-fever as well, Star-Lord tells them about his life in a small, narrow-minded town on Terra, about all the scorn his mother had to suffer for having a child out of wedlock, about her illness, about seeing her fade away day by day without being able to do anything to help, about being so scared and in denial about her death to be unable to take her hand as she passed... and then of how the Ravagers had taken him, of how terrified he was at first and of how they have become his new, crazy, marauding family.  
He tells them that he has always thought that they had kidnapped him for a lark, because they were close to Terra and fancied a mascot, but now Nova Prime has told him that his father is an alien, and Yondu has told him that it was his arsehole of a father who commissioned his kidnapping. He could have collected him and his mother at any time, he could have spared them years of humiliation, he could have saved her, and yet he didn't care enough to do so...

"If we meet him, I'm so breaking his face..." Rocket declares sleepily, nuzzling against Ronan's side and curling up in the space between him and Gamora.  
"Thanks buddy..." Star-Lord says, ruffling the fur on his head. He starts chuckling low, almost under his breath.  
"We are so messed up, we should all go to a therapist, maybe we'd get a group discount..." he comments.  
"What is therapy?" Drax asks quietly.  
Star-Lord shrugs. "It's when you talk to someone about your problems, and they help you feel better." he replies.  
"Then this is therapy already. - Drax declares - I feel a lot better thanks to you." he adds.  
Ronan cannot help but second the motion. He feels relaxed and calm, almost lighter inside. At his side, Rocket and Groot have already surrendered to sleep, hugging each other tightly, and Gamora is nearly there.  
"Next time, bluebell, talk to us before you lose it that way, will you?" Star-Lord asks him.  
Ronan nods, feeling that his eyes are closing on their own. It is likely that there will be a next time, but somehow the perspective doesn't daunt him as much as it should. The Guardians have his back, he is safer than he ever was.  
This is why he doesn't resist when sleep claims him, why for once no dreams torment him.

They wake up in a heap a few hours later, sore and stiff from the awkward position, but restored.  
They disentangle with a bit of embarrassment, but no one seems upset. Ronan has never thought that he would need any sort of reassurance and comfort, that he was stronger than that, but actually he does and maybe he has always needed it. The Guardians will share it with him, he has no doubt. They need it too, they need each other to be sane and happy.

He he might have lost everything else, but he has them, and, by everything that is sacred, he will do anything in his power to keep them. He won't let them come to any harm.  
And that is when he realizes that he has already succumbed to the bane of most _haaq_ , and earlier than most. He knows that he is starting to care about his captors as if they were his own flesh and blood, but for once he doesn't want to fight against that feeling. It is a good feeling, and he likes it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: none really. There is some cultural incomprehension, and some slight angst, but a lot more light-hearted than in the previous chapter, and quite a lot of embarrassment, plus Ronan's very confused boner.

After their "little" breakdown, things change between him and the Guardians. It seems as if now they really _know_ each other, now that they have seen each other at their weakest, and have learned of each other's deepest fears and anguishes. No one tries to belittle anyone else for them. Actually, it seems as if there is a deeper respect between them now, a deeper understanding and more tolerance for everyone's quirks and moods.  
The conversations start to flow around the table and in the cockpit, they start feeling natural and not a form of enforced politeness.

Ronan knows that he should not, that he should be ashamed that he hasn't managed to stay strong and aloof from his masters, but he is glad that doesn't have to hide anything from them anymore. It is relieving.  
Now that he knows about his nightmares, little Groot has taken to sneak into his cell at least a bit of time every night, and curl himself against him to comfort him.  
Sometimes Rocket does that too, and he wakes up in the morning with an armful of rumpled, groggy, furry mechanic. They don't make a big deal of it. He has nightmares, Rocket has nightmares, by sleeping together they have less of them. It is a sensible arrangement, and no one seems to take it amiss.

So far Ronan had been seeing the Guardians through the filter of his expectations about them. He has interpreted them as _haaq-_ masters, as non-Kree, and as bounty-hunters in turn, but rarely as just people. The realisation that Drax's feelings about his lost family are the same as his for his own has been an eye-opener for him. From then onwards, he tries to see them as they really are, to observe without judging.

He used to be quite good at observing, it was part of his job as an Accuser, and it seems that his fall has not dulled his perceptive and deductive abilities. As soon as he starts truly looking, he starts noticing things: how Rocket likes to sleep wedged in tight spaces when he is not curled against someone else, the care with which Drax hones his knives, how Gamora's cybernetics sometimes pain her, making her movements slightly less fluid and her moods more mercurial. He notices more subtle things too, the smell of Gamora's shampoo, what is Peter's favourite beer, and that Rocket likes some "exotic" food that the others would not even look at. Acting on his observations would seem like the next natural step, but he is torn.

Ideally, a _haaq_ should serve faithfully, but should not become attached to their masters, and should be ready to return to their previous life at the drop of a hat if they are freed.  
Some masters make it easy for their _haaq_ , by keeping their distance or treating them with scorn. Most _haaq_ , especially those who are taken young, and treated with care end up enjoying their fate, and loving their masters as if they were their family. This behaviour is considered with a fair amount of scorn by the upper castes of the Kree. If his grandfather could see him now, he would express all his disapproval.  
Pama however says to repay kindness with kindness, and to be considerate to all. If Her message is so universal, it cannot apply only to Kree.

It takes a while for Ronan to come to terms with his inner conflict, but by the time Gamora's shampoo needs to be replaced once more, he has firmly decided that the path he plans to follow is right by the spirit of Pama's teachings, even if maybe not by the writ of Kree law. It is rather unsettling for him to break away from that anchor, but it is totally worth the dread of the leap.

He is now in charge of most supply runs when they are planet-side and, especially when money is plentiful from some successful bounty, or when they are on planets where bargaining is acceptable, it is no great chore to him to get a few extra things to make the Guardians happy. Once it is some medicinal herbal tea for Gamora, or her favourite brand of shampoo, next time it's some deep-fried bugs or some electronic junk for Rocket, or fertilizer for Groot.  
They smile at him, and he feels proud of having put that smile on their faces.

When Drax's whetstone and weapon oil need to be replaced, Ronan doesn't think twice about including them in his next supply run. He haggles with the weapon-smith at the market, and proudly presents his catch to the Destroyer when he comes back.  
Drax's skin subtly shifts colour and he looks at him with a slightly worried look.

Ronan has been observing him for long enough to realize that Drax's species does not have a blushing reflex like his or Star-Lord's. The pigments of his skin actually change slightly in response to his emotions.  
The subtle shift in nuance from greenish-grey to brownish-green likely means embarrassment.  
Ronan takes a mental step back.

"Did I just step on some cultural practice I didn't know of? - he asks, growing rather embarrassed too - Have I offended you?"  
Drax shakes his head, and grows even more brownish. "No, you have not. - he replies - This is... what you have been doing with us lately... all those gifts..." he stammers, and Ronan realizes that whatever it is all about, it must be serious, because Drax is rarely anything less than blunt.  
"It seems to me that you are trying to court us. - he blurts out - For marriage." he adds, as if it wasn't clear enough.  
If he grows any more brown, Ronan thinks, he'll look like Korath. His cheeks are burning too, and must be nearly indigo with embarrassment.  
"Ah. - he manages - I didn't... well, it's not as if I wouldn't be honoured by... by an alliance between our Houses..." he replies, reverting to a formality he has grown unused to.  
"But courting you wasn't really my intention." he adds immediately.  
"Ah, I see... - Drax says, sighing and growing greener in relief - I... I am glad. I don't think I would enjoy having sex with a man... even if you are rather handsome... I mean..." he adds, and a brown tinge returns to his skin.  
Ronan feels like he is going to pass out in embarrassment. "You are a fine specimen of warrior too... - he retorts, not wanting to offend him - Rest assured that none of the gifts that I might give you in the future will be given in the intent of courting you." he explains.  
Drax nods again. "So, who are you using me as a decoy for? - he asks cheerfully - Is it Gamora? Or is it Star-Lord?"  
"I... I beg your pardon?" Ronan retorts, as his brain refuses to parse the question.  
"Come on, Accuser, I know how these things work. We used to do the same in my village. Misdirection. Inciting jealousy in your chosen partner. - Drax continues, blissfully unaware of his confusion - It is a rather dangerous tactic though. And you don't really need it. You have good chances already, with both, but especially with Star-Lord. I have seen how he looks at you when you wear those trousers..." he adds, winking in complicity.  
"Trousers...?" Ronan asks weakly.  
Drax nods. "Yes, the trousers you stole on Xandar. The ones that make you look like you are on display." he clarifies.  
Oh, Ronan thinks, those. Why is everyone so hung up on that garment? And how has he never noticed that people were looking at him in... inappropriate ways?  
"My intentions have nothing to do with wooing anyone." he declares, rigid with embarrassment.  
Drax tilts his head to one side. "Oh, I thought..." he starts.  
Ronan shakes his head. "It would be totally inappropriate for me to do so." he explains.  
"Well, if it is so..." Drax concedes, sounding far from convinced.  
"It is." Ronan confirms.  
"Thanks for your gift anyway. It was much appreciated." Drax declares finally, putting an end to one of the most embarrassing conversations he has ever had in his life.

Later on that night, when he is in his cell, lying on his bedroll, snippets of their conversation slowly float in his mind.  
Does Star-Lord really look at him inappropriately from time to time? He cannot imagine why.  
He has never considered himself an attractive man and neither have others. The only reason why well-born women sought him out back home, and even that was rare, was his lofty position and the station of his family.  
Not that he cared back then. He had never had time for romantic pursuits, and he had never truly been attracted to anyone. That was an area in which he didn't really function normally.

Maybe Drax has just had the wrong impression. During his work as an Accuser, he had come to appreciate the fact that eyewitness statements, are often inaccurate and that people have a tendency to see what they want to see.  
True knowledge comes from the repeated observation of reality in controlled conditions, so the following day he wears his objectionable trousers and waits for a reaction. He doesn't have to wait long. Star-Lord comes to breakfast, and as he sits down he casts a long glance at him.  
Ronan pretends he hasn't seen it and forces himself to stay calm. One observation could be happenstance.

By the end of the day, he has observed enough to be reasonably sure that Drax was right: Star-Lord looks at him in _that_ way, and not just him. Gamora does too. He has even caught her staring dreamily at him while he cooked dinner.  
Ronan doesn't know how to feel. He is pleased of the attention, but embarrassed and slightly frightened by it. Most of all, he feels guilty about it.

Many _haaq_ end up being forced into sexual situations by their masters, it is a sad fact of life, and one against which they cannot resist.  
Whoring oneself out to one's masters is an easy way of gaining their favour, but it is considered an undignified, morally reproachable act, even worse than growing to care for one's masters. It is seen as dishonest and underhanded.  
Growing to like being used in that way is bad enough, but actually trying to seduce them into doing it... he shudders at the thought.

He should not encourage such interests in his masters. They still have absolute power over him, even if they pretend that they don't, and he might end up being ordered in their bed anyway, but at least he doesn't want it to be because of his behaviour. The whole matter is something he definitely wouldn't be comfortable with.

The Xandarian trousers end up at the bottom of his stash of clothes and he stops bringing gifts to either Gamora or Star-Lord. He is not sure they would equate to courtship in their eyes too, but he thinks it is better to be safe than to be sorry. He doesn't want to surrender his last shreds of dignity by becoming their sex slave. He is not attracted by them, he tells himself.  
They are not Kree, and Star-Lord is pale and stubbly, while Gamora is far too muscular for the standards of beauty he is used to.

Now that he has gotten into the mindset of observing them, however, he cannot help but noticing how Star-Lord's eyes light up when he smiles and the slight tan of his skin when he spends lots of time planet-side, and the way he laughs, and how Gamora's cybernetics blend in with her green skin and her two-toned hair whips around her face when she trains.  
She has started to do some dance training too, to reconnect with her more innocent past, and one day he catches himself looking intently at her as she dances, marveling at the play of muscles under her soft skin and imagining how it would feel to run his hands over it, the contrast between cold cybernetics and warm flesh, between hardness and softness.  
As soon as he realizes what he is doing, he snaps out of it and stalks away, fleeing from the temptation.

From then onwards he avoids watching her as she trains, but now that he has opened that door, it cannot be closed, and he is more and more frequently surprised by moments of loss of control.  
Once he is brushing his teeth in the bathroom, and Star-Lord waltzes in dressed only in a pair of boxer briefs, thinking nothing of it. Ronan sees him only for a moment before averting his eyes, but he is so mesmerized by what he saw, that later that evening he ends up cutting himself quite badly as he chops the vegetables for dinner out of how intensely he was recalling it.  
He cannot un-see the beauty and the attractiveness of their forms, and the Milano is so cramped that there is no way of avoiding to look at them for long spans of time.  
His body starts responding to them both in mortifying ways, and he doesn't know how to stop being affected by the two of them.  
He has never taken so many ice-cold showers in his life.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: cute awkwardness and awkward cuteness, plus some violence. You're gonna like this!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Kudos to you if you have recognised the tapes mentioned in this chapter.

Weeks pass, and his new, forbidden urges seem to fade slightly. If the Guardians have noticed his predicament, they have made no mention of it and Gamora and Star-Lord surely haven't tried to step things up ever since.  
It is relieving and it allows him to return to a certain degree of normalcy.  
He is no longer so frequently plagued by fits of inappropriate stiffening of his manly parts when he looks at them, but a strange sort of longing has grown in his heart, deepening the way he cares for them compared to the rest of the Guardians. He feels awkward and almost awed in their presence, but he tries to hide it behind the formal attitude engrained in him by his grandfather.  
It is the only way he has not to look like a total fool in front of them.

After an easy, not very lucrative bounty, they stop planet-side, on a junkyard world called Skeet.  
The space-farers nickname it Shit Prime, and the way the place smells, it seems to live up to its moniker, but it also happens to be one of the best places to restock on a budget. All the junk and the dubious acquisitions this side of the Galaxy end up there, creating a thriving market for antiques, second-hand spaceship parts, loot, and other assorted junk.

Ronan is doing his usual reconnaissance run of the market. In the first ten minutes he has managed to spot two drug dealers, at least three peddlers of stolen wares and a prostitute. The standards of legality are even looser than on Knowhere, but he has to admit that the stuff on sale is very cheap and usually in working order if a bit worn. He has managed to tick all the items off his list and is making his way back to the Milano, when he spots something out of the corner of an eye and stops in his tracks to examine it more closely.

On display in one of the market stalls there is an array of small boxy items with two crenellated holes in the middle.  
He has seen those before. They are like Star-Lord's beloved mixtapes.  
"Where did you find these?" he asks the shopkeeper, a porcine-looking alien.  
The alien grunts. "Got the load off some Chitauri. - he replies - They grabbed it on Terra, during their botched invasion. Turns out it's old shit. I mean, it's even old shit on Terra, and that's saying something..." he adds with a grunting laugh.  
Ronan makes a noncommittal sound and nods, just to humour him.  
"How much is one of these?" he asks nonchalantly. The alien asks just a few credits. Ronan pays up and grabs one of the tapes. He thinks he has recognised the name of one of Star-Lord's favourite groups on the label.  
The shopkeeper grumbles something about "retro-tech nerds", but Ronan ignores it and runs back to the Milano.  
He can't wait to see Star-Lord's face when he sees that.

"The Jackson 5?!" Star-Lord exclaims when he finally sees it. His eyes are shining with wonder and he looks even more attractive than usual. Ronan is quietly proud of having caused him to become so.  
"My mum used to listen to this all the time! - Star-Lord continues - Where did you find it?" he asks.  
Ronan tells him.  
"The merchant has a lot more of these. Do you want me to show you where his stall is?" he asks. He cannot help but be excited by the idea of spending some time alone with Star-Lord, but manages to keep his tone casual.  
Star-Lord almost jumps with joy. "Of course, bluebell!" he exclaims, then grabs his hand and all but pulls him out of the Milano in his haste to get there.  
"Come on! Let's go before it closes for the night!" he adds.

The merchant is rather bemused by Star-Lord's enthusiasm for what he considers outdated junk, but at least he is honest enough not to try and raise the prices faced with such an obvious, overt interest in his wares.  
They spend quite a lot of time at the stall, as Star-Lord picks which cassettes he wants. Some are from artists he knows, some he picks just for the pictures on the boxes. If they aren't any good, they can always space them, he says.

They end up with so many that they have to use a satchel to hold them.  
In the meantime, Star-Lord explains to Ronan some bits and pieces he knows about Terran music and his mother's favourite bands. He used to listen to her music all the time when he was a child.

"She couldn't live without some sort of soundtrack to her daily life." he says fondly.  
"Like someone I know..." Ronan comments cheerfully.  
Star-Lord smiles. "Music saved my life, actually." he points out, elbowing him lightly.  
Ronan rolls his eyes and sighs. "Never underestimate the power of out-of-context dancing..." he drawls.  
Star-Lord starts laughing, and he feels so happy that he could fly.  
They are out together, talking and laughing, as if it was a date. It is heavenly.

"Ha! This one looks like it was made for you!" Star-Lord exclaims suddenly, grabbing one of the tapes.  
On the box there is a picture of four white-faced men with their faces painted with black warpaint. They look quite intimidating.  
"Look! The guy on this one has even the same trousers as you!" Star-Lord continues, handing him another box. The man on the cover is smashing a musical instrument against the floor in a fit of rage. His trousers are red and black in a chequered pattern, and in fact look like his own objectionable Xandarian trousers.  
Ronan smiles at Star-Lord and hands the box back. "You have funny customs on Terra." he says.

"I'll buy these ones too." Star-Lord tells the shopkeeper, who, as usual grunts and grabs the money.  
"Here! - the Terran says, pressing the two boxes into Ronan's hands - It's a present." he adds. His cheek colour slightly darker pink-tan than the rest of him.  
Ronan's heart almost misses a beat.  
"I cannot accept it. - he says stiffly, almost in a knee-jerk reaction - Technically, I am not allowed to own anything." he adds, hiding his embarrassment behind the legalities of his station.  
"Alright. - Star-Lord says, quirking an eyebrow - Then these are mine, but I am ordering you to listen to them. You need to broaden your knowledge of Terran music." he adds, trying to sound high-handed but ruining it by smiling widely.  
"Do you know them?" Ronan asks, smelling a rat.  
"Nope. Never heard them before." Star-Lord declares candidly.  
Ronan gives him a bemused stare.  
"I guess we'll have to listen to them together." the Terran says, and Ronan tries his hardest not to look like he is glad of the proposal. He has the impression that Star-Lord notices anyway.

They are already on their way towards the Milano with Star-Lord's stash of cassettes, when the Terran suddenly stops in his tracks with a pained grimace. His hands run to his temples, pressing against the bone as if to keep his head together, and he crumples to his knees with a sharp cry.  
Ronan, who was walking a few steps behind, rushes to his side immediately and kneels next to him, trying to support him.  
"Star-Lord! What has happened? - he asks, casting quick glances around to check for enemies - Are you hurt?" he adds.  
Star-Lord raises his gaze at him, it is blurry with tears of pain and almost vacant.  
"Make it stop... please..." he whispers, grabbing his jacket, then curls up further in pain. At the edges of his perception, Ronan can almost hear a thin, very high-pitched sound. It sounds like some sort of radio interference.  
"Is this what is hurting Star-Lord?" he asks himself, standing up again to try and identify the source of the transmission.  
Some sort of kinetic weapon hits him in the chest with enough force to send him flying into the nearest rubbish dump.

When he emerges from the junk, furious with himself for not having figured out it was an ambush, some humanoid figures are closing down on Star-Lord. They are armed, and he is still writhing in pain on the ground.  
Ronan doesn't even think twice.  
A section of metal pole with a metal sign attached to it emerges from the junk. He grabs it and launches himself at their foes, his mind flooded by battle fury.  
They must have expected him to stay down, and their surprise is almost comical when he caves in the skull of one of them with his improvised weapon.  
It is not the Universal Weapon, but it would do to dish up some retribution.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: more violence, some sexyness if you squint.
> 
> Enjoy!

The pain in his head is so intense and the noise so disorienting that he must have blacked out for a few seconds, or more, after trying to talk to Ronan.  
When he comes to, there are several gun-toting strangers closing on him and the Kree is nowhere in sight.  
"It was a trap..." Peter thinks sluggishly.  
He tries to stand up and fight, but one of the strangers presses a button on some kind of contraption and the infernal noise retakes his place in his head. He screams and probably blacks out again, and when he opens his eyes once more, Ronan is charging against the strangers, armed with what looks like a Terran street sign. Peter is so confused that it seems to make sense.

The head of one of the strangers is smashed in at the first blow. Whoever thought that blunt weapons don't shed blood has not seen anyone fight well with one.  
Ronan fights like he has never done anything else in his life, which is actually true. After months and months of shy, caring and submissive Ronan, he has almost forgotten how implacable and terrifying he can be.  
The strangers are good, they even manage to hit him once or twice, but ultimately they end up broken and bleeding on the floor and Ronan stands among their bodies, all spattered in blood, his cheeks flushed a dark blue with exertion and excitement, and a satisfied grin on his face. He looks magnificent, Peter thinks. If his head didn't hurt so much, he'd totally have a happy at the sight, however creepy it might sound.

Ronan drops the sign and runs back towards him.  
"Can you stand?" he asks, kneeling at his side.  
Peter thinks about it for a minute or so. Can he?  
"Not sure..." he mumbles. Even if the worst of the pain is gone, his head is still all wonky. Even if he manages to stand, he won't be able to walk straight.  
"I'll carry you then. We have to move. There might be more of those mercenaries in the vicinity." he declares, and makes to lift him up in a fireman's carry.  
Peter resists, wriggling in his grasp.  
"No fireman. - he protests - I'll puke down your back. Seriously." he rasps. Just thinking about puking has made him nauseous.  
Ronan nods and manages to help him onto his back.  
"Hold on tight." he instructs, rising to his feet as he grabs the satchel with the tapes. The Kree starts running at a reasonably fast clip, as if Peter didn't weigh much more than a child.  
Peter cannot help but feel safe like that, like when Yondu carried him more or less in the same way when he was a kid. Only, Ronan smells nicer, like soap and clean skin, and is considerably handsomer.  
Peter sighs and lets himself drift off at least a bit. He knows that no harm will come to him.

When he arrives at the Milano, running with Star-Lord on his back, the rest of the Guardians are having some sort of snack at the table.  
"What the hell has happened?! - Rocket exclaims as soon as he sees them - What did you do to him?!" he accuses.  
"We were attacked by mercenaries. - Ronan replies, slightly out of breath - They interfered with his implants. With radio frequencies." he explains.  
Rocket curses.  
"Let's get him somewhere comfortable!" Gamora orders. They carry Star-Lord to his bed in the tiny room he shares with Gamora. He rouses to consciousness when they call him and finally Ronan manages to relax from his state of near-panic. Seeing him in so lost and in pain was one of the worst experiences since he started living with the Guardians.

Even if he is awake, Star-Lord is quite confused and weak, so Rocket turns to him for information.  
"What happened? What were the symptoms?" he asks.  
"And since when you are the medic?" Ronan retorts, still upset enough to be confrontational. He doesn't think he will be able to fully relax until Star-Lord is back on his feet.  
"Since I patch myself up all the time. - the sentient raccoon declares - Now spit out, buddy!" he orders.  
"Headache, confusion, nosebleeds. - Ronan lists - He passed out at least once."  
"Did you see what they were using as a source?" Rocket asks, wringing his hands a bit.  
Ronan shakes his head. "It was handheld. I didn't pause to investigate further."  
"So the bad guys could still be using it?" Rocket points out.  
"Not those people. Not that machine." he replies firmly. He has smashed it to pieces alongside its wielder.  
He has killed those mercenaries in anger rather than in justice, but he cannot find any guilt in himself for it. Defending Star-Lord was paramount.

Rocket seems pleased by his reply and sets out to examine Star-Lord.  
"Rocket... Ronan has been shot. - the Terran mutters, trying to sit up in bed - You need to..."  
"I'll take care of this. - Gamora says, shushing him gently - You need to rest." This seems to calm him at least a bit.  
"Alright. Groot, stay here with Peter. - Gamora orders next - Drax, Ronan, with me. We need to get out of this place and back to Knowhere. I want Peter seen by a real doctor. No offense meant, Rocket." she adds later.  
"None taken." Rocket replies.  
Ronan doesn't really want to leave Star-Lord's bedside, but he cannot ignore a direct order, so he goes with them.

Gamora gets the Milano in the air, and on course for Knowhere. As soon as they are suitably far from Shit Prime, she turns to Ronan and asks for a retelling of the events. Ronan complies as accurately as he can.  
"So you killed them all with a piece of refuse..." she comments with a hint of admiration.  
Ronan nods. "I couldn't allow them to live and call reinforcements." he explains.  
"Are you sure they were after Peter and not you?" she asks.  
Ronan nods again. "They tried to take me out first, so they could take their time with Star-Lord. - he replies - I think they were trying to capture him." he adds.  
"And you said they were mercenaries?" she continues.  
"I recognised their crest. - he confirms - I had a few run-ins with them early in my career." he adds.  
"Smashed a few heads, eh?" Drax comments.  
"A few more today." Ronan confirms smugly.  
Fighting them, even while panicking about Star-Lord's safety, was extremely satisfying. He is pleased that his ability as a warrior is still almost intact.

"Peter said they shot you down." Gamora comments.  
"It was nothing." he minimises. His chest aches a bit, but it is nothing worrying.  
The assassin rolls her eyes. "Says the man who didn't realise he had an internal bleeding..." she taunts. He should have imagined that they would never let him live that down.  
"Drax, get the controls. - she instructs - You, come with me. I'll have a look at those injuries." she adds.  
Ronan would like to protest, but it is another direct order, so he swallows his retort, hangs his head and follows her to his cell.

She sits on the padded floor and opens the first-aid kit, looking a bit overwhelmed by the situation. He kneels in front of her. She is as scared by Star-Lord's predicament as he is and that she needs comfort as much as he does. He doesn't know how to give it to her, so he waits quietly for her orders.  
"Where did they shoot you?" she asks gently. Ronan gestures vaguely towards his chest.  
"Ouch! - she comments - Take your top off."  
Ronan feels his cheeks instantly burn up in embarrassment. "You... this is not necessary... I am..." he stammers.  
"Take. Your. Top. Off." Gamora repeats more forcefully.  
He obeys, instantly silenced. His jacket hits the floor, then his hoodie and undershirt, until he is bare from the waist up. He can feel her eyes on him, and for some reason this makes his manly parts start to rise to attention.

"It is nothing, eh?" Gamora comments sternly, placing a hand over his sternum. It is warm and her touch is soft.  
Something so mundane shouldn't feel so good. Something so innocent shouldn't excite him like that.  
It takes him a moment to realise that he has a very ugly bruise on his chest and likely a few others on his arms and back from tumbling into a refuse heap. He even has a couple of defensive cuts on his forearms. Now that he can see them, they sting, but he had not realised their existence until then.

"I will survive. I have had worse." he declares, rearranging himself so that his inconvenient lust is concealed.  
"I know." Gamora says, a sad look on her face. Her fingers slide down his chest, ghosting over the faint, lighter blue line of the scar on his stomach. He nearly shudders in pleasure. He feels unusually warm and light-headed and has to fight hard to hide his reactions.

Gamora takes a pot of bruise salve and starts applying it gently over his injuries, spreading it with her fingers. Having to remain impassive despite how good it feels to have her warm hands on him is almost torture. The evident care in her gestures and etched on her face is driving him even closer to the edge. It makes the temptation of surrendering, of submitting all the sweeter.  
Her scent is all round him and her hair brushes his skin when she reaches for a bruise on his back. He doesn't think he can resist long without giving himself away. His hands itch to touch her. He sits on them.

When she finishes treating his wounds he is one step away from begging her to do whatever she wants with him and thus shaming himself for a whore.  
Once her hands leave his skin he can finally breathe and think normally. He immediately feels colder from the lack of her touch.  
"Better now?" Gamora asks.  
It takes Ronan a few tries to find his voice. "Better..." he confirms.  
Gamora watches him in silence for a moment, a strange expression painted on her face.  
"I know that you're going to say that it was your duty to save Peter... - she says suddenly - but I want to thank you nonetheless." she continues. Her warm hand presses gently against his face. Their eyes meet.  
"Thank you for bringing him safely home." she whispers.  
Her lips touch his cheek in a chaste kiss, but he feels as if an electric shock has gone through him.  
He would do anything to have her kiss him like that again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: some angst, some wrangling of cultural practices.
> 
> Enjoy!

They arrive on Knowhere the following day. Star-Lord is already much restored, but all of them agree on not letting him out of bed until the doctor checks on him, much to his disappointment.  
Rocket's friend is a rather shady character with awful bedside manner, but the raccoon trusts him and that suffices. He runs some tests and scans on Star-Lord and finally proclaims him out of the woods, albeit in need of bed rest for a few days for a complete recovery. Apparently there was no lasting damage, but the vulnerability of the implants still needs to be addressed. Rocket launches himself on the task with great enthusiasm.

Star-Lord, Drax and Gamora, instead, closet themselves in Star-Lord's room for a while, then Drax goes downtown without saying a word to anyone, and a few hours later Gamora joins him.  
No one talks to him in the meantime, so Ronan dedicates himself to his chores. The nagging feeling that he might have done something wrong and deserving a punishment doesn't leave him though, and when Star-Lord calls him to his room after Drax's return, he is fully expecting a dressing-down.

Star-Lord is sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking worn but reasonably healthy. Gamora is sitting next to him. Both are smiling and this reassures him.  
He still gives a quick glance to Drax, who is standing near the door, smiling too. The angrier he is, the greyer his skin becomes, but now he is almost fully green. The Destroyer couldn't dissimulate even if he wanted to. The coast is clear, he doesn't need to worry.

Star-Lord beckons him closer to the bed, then asks him to sit down on it.  
Ronan is getting confused, but complies. He doesn't quite understand what is going on.  
"Easy, bluebell... - Star-Lord says, catching on his unease - There is nothing for you to worry about. We just... It just occurred to me that I have never properly thanked you for saving me from those mercs." he explains.  
"You don't have to thank me, I was just doing my duty as your _haaq_." Ronan replies once more.  
"I don't have to, but I will anyway." Star-Lord declares. He nods towards Drax, who steps aside and reveals a long, strangely shaped parcel, bundled with cloth, which is propped against the counter. The Destroyer shifts his gaze over to Star-Lord, who in turn beckons towards Ronan.  
"This is for you. - he says, pointing at the parcel - Open it."  
Ronan gives him a quick glance for confirmation, and when the Terran nods, he unties the cloth from around the content with hands that tremble slightly with emotion.

Within the cloth lies a long-hafted, double-bladed axe. The metal of the blade is burnished black-blue like blood and strange reddish glyphs curl on the flat on both sides. Even if it is clearly an antique, the edge is keen, patterned in waves.  
It is beautiful.

Ronan looks at his masters with awe, unable to speak a word.  
Star-Lord seems to find it cute.  
"We know you like your weapons with some impact, but no one here knows about maces and we didn't want to get you something shitty that would break at the first blow." the Terran is saying with a warm smile.  
"That axe seemed very appropriate to you. I hope you like it." Drax chimes in, going a bit brown. He must have chosen it personally.  
"It is a _labyrs_. These things used to be the weapons of the champions of my people. - Gamora reveals, and judging from their expressions Star-Lord and Drax didn't know about that either - The writings say 'My name is Keenblade. My edge will never dull as long as I am used in justice.'" she adds with a sad smile, giving the axe a fond look.  
"I have no idea of how it got there, but it was collecting dust on the shelf of a pawn shop, when Drax found it. - she continues - It seemed fitting that you should have it." she concludes, shifting her gaze towards the Kree. An unshed tear shines in her eyes.  
It must have been her father's, Ronan thinks, and though he cannot possibly be worthy of wielding such a weapon, he is uplifted by the idea that she should consider bestowing a heirloom of her family to him. It means much to him.

"I... It is magnificent. - Ronan manages to say, holding back what threaten to be tears of joy - But I cannot possibly..."  
"Don't even try. - Gamora interrupts him - We know for certain that you can. We did our research about _haaq_ this time." she announces.  
Ronan feels a shiver of dread, or maybe of anticipation, course through him at those words. Do they know _everything_ about _haaq_ now?  
"It is not just because of that... - he manages to protest - This... this is too much for me."  
"Nonsense. - Drax cut his protestations short - We destroyed your ancestral weapon, it seems right that we should provide you with a weapon befitting your battle prowess." he adds

"So far we have been treating you as our housekeeper, but you are a warrior... - Star-Lord chimes in - And it doesn't seem fair to... to prevent you from being what you are."  
"What Peter is trying to say is that we would like you to serve us in a more offensive capacity. - Gamora interjects - Unless now you object to violence..." she adds, giving him a significant look.  
Ronan nearly laughs at her statement. He objects to wanton destruction and slaughtering innocents, but he likes a fight just fine.

"Are you asking me to serve as your retainer?" he asks, subconsciously tracing the glyphs on the blade.  
It positively thrums under his fingers, a bit like the Universal Weapon used to do. At first it feels inquisitive, like the _labyrs_ is assessing him, then it settles into a low, satisfied purr of acceptance. Like the Guardians, the weapon is convinced of the match.

Giving a weapon, especially one so clearly powerful, to one's _haaq_ is the ultimate sign of trust from a _haaq_ -master. It means that they are sure of their loyalty and consider them almost a full member of the household. It is a great honour, and he is not sure he has done much to deserve it.  
"Yes, we are." Gamora confirms.  
"And what about the Nova? They won't like this." he still objects because it is the right thing to do even if he wants to be their retainer, he wants it with all of himself.  
"The Nova can stuff their displeasure where the sun doesn't shine." Peter replies assuredly.  
"Will you fight for us, Ronan of House Danu? Will you stand at our side in the battlefield?" Gamora asks and, Pama have mercy, she even knows the traditional words...

Ronan slides to his knees to the side of the bed , holding the axe flat on his hands, extended in front of him.  
"I will. - he replies decisively - I will defend you and your household with my own life. I will never forsake you. This I pledge on my honour and my hope for an afterlife." he declares solemnly.  
Star-Lord pushes the axe back towards him, and they both bow. The Guardians actually did their research in detail and seem to know exactly what they are doing. It is nice and strange to think that they have gone such great lengths for him.  
"Then rise, Ronan of the Guardians, and take your place among us." Star-Lord declares, and damn, his heart aches with joy at his words, and his vision is blurry with tears as he rises to his feet.

Gamora rises too and hugs him close, then Drax joins in, nearly squeezing the breath out of them both.  
He doesn't know why and he feels like an idiot about it, but their touch is enough to shatter his control and make him start to cry.

As if on cue, Rocket and Groot come through the door.  
"What? - Rocket exclaims - Is he having one of those again?!"  
Ronan wants to point out that he only had "one of those" once, but realises that there is no need.  
"You can't do this, buddy! - the raccoon continues - I can't see my friends cry without crying too. And that makes me miserable!" he adds, starting to sniffle.  
Drax picks him up by the scruff of his neck and draws him into the collective hug. Groot launches himself at them and extends his branches, trying to hug them all at once.

They end up in a puppy pile on Star-Lord's bed, crying and laughing and teasing each other for it.  
Ronan realises that if someone told him that he could have his old life back in exchange for this one, he would say no.  
What are authority and prestige worth if you are alone?  
What's power for, when no one that cares about you, but only about your role? No amount of money or status can help if you have to suppress your feelings so hard that you are left empty.

The Guardians are so broke sometimes, that they have to ration the toilet paper, they get insulted by every thug in the Galaxy, and sometimes get thrown out of bars for past misdemeanors, but they have each other.  
They cry together and laugh together, and sometimes get angry at each other, and start throwing insults and plates at each other, but no one is made to feel ashamed for breaking down, because they all do, sometime or other, and they know that, when it happens, the others will help them piece themselves back together.  
They are amazing, and now they have officially accepted him as one of their own.

When he learned that he could never go back to the Empire, he was devastated by the news, but now he is happy about it.  
He wouldn't want to go back to that life.  
He doesn't want to leave the Guardians.  
He wants to stay like this forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N.  
> A labrys is a double-edged axe.  
> It was a divine symbol in Minoan Crete, and it was the symbol of the Storm-God Tarhun/Teshub, protector of the creation and vanquisher of monsters, in Hatti and most of the Middle East during the bronze age.  
> Coincidentally, it is also the divine attribute of the law-giving Orisha Xango, who is also a Storm-God.
> 
> More info at these links:
> 
> wiki/Labrys  
> wiki/Ox%C3%AA (This one is in portuguese. Apologies, but the link between Xango and the labrys-like axe is omitted in the english version)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: some language and general seditiousness. Plus some eye candy.
> 
> I don't have any bone to pick with the character of Irani Rael, I have a general bone to pick with governments that won't admit past wrongdoings on the basis that they were doing the wrong thing (i.e. restricting/violating human rights, or in this case sentient rights) for the right reasons. There is no right reason for some things. There isn't.  
> I kind of like Irani Rael, actually.
> 
> Enjoy!

Obviously, when she gets the news that they have allowed Ronan to carry a weapon, Nova Prime is not particularly impressed. Actually, she comes very close to flipping the lid.

"Are you totally insane?!" she shouts through the comm.  
"It's not dangerous in any way, I promise you. - Peter tries to calm her, pinching the bridge of his nose - He is not going to harm us, and if he had really wanted to, he would have managed even without a weapon." he points out.  
"And what about the rest of the Galaxy? - she asks - Are they safe too?"  
Peter shrugs. "Unless they try to fuck with us, yes. - he replies - I have told you, madam, he is not the person he was during the whole blowing-up-Xandar incident, he has changed." he insists.  
"I don't care. You were supposed to restrain him, not reform him. - she argues - You were supposed to keep him out of the public eye, not appear with him as a member of your team on the HoloNet!" she wails.

When she starts ranting about how their mission on on Gramosia was too high-profile and so on, Peter just switches off. To be cooped up in the cockpit, arguing with her is the last thing he wants.  
After Gramosia, they have landed in a nice little tropical beach on a mostly uninhabited planet, and currently the rest of the team is outside, enjoying the sun. From where he is sitting he can see them through the windshield.  
Rocket and Groot are making sand constructions, while Gamora, Drax and Ronan are sparring together.  
The weather is so warm that even normally prim Ronan has been forced to do without several articles of clothing, and Peter is currently enjoying a nice and unimpeded view of the shirtless Kree. He could watch him for hours, especially when he trains or fights, like on Gramosia, where he put Keenblade to good use mowing down scores of raiders.  
Peter remembers seeing him grin as fought, already so in tune with his new weapon that it seemed like it had always been his.  
Gamora, who was also eating him up with her eyes back then, agrees with him: smoking hot doesn't quite cover it.

As if summoned by his reminiscences, Gamora tackles Ronan and both end up on the floor, fighting for dominance.  
Peter's mind jumps straight into the gutter, supplying him with several different erotic fantasies involving his two favourite aliens entangled in bed. He is quite sure that Gamora is enjoying herself, even if she seems to have lost her advantage and is now being pressed to the ground.  
If they could have it their way, Ronan would have been sharing their bed for a while already.

When they were looking up _haaq_ -taking practices for giving Ronan his axe, they had found out that the services required from a _haaq_ often included sleeping with their masters, and they are reasonably sure that if they ordered him, Ronan would comply, but however lustful for him, they would never do something like that.

It would be wrong on so many levels that it gives him a headache just to think about it, so they just keep on dropping him hints, in the hope that he realises that they liked him _that_ way, but the poor man seems so shy and confused about his feelings, that so far they haven't had any success.  
Maybe they should just take a leaf out of Drax's book and be blunt about it, telling him straight away that they want to screw him seven ways to Sunday, if that's fine with him.  
"Maybe we should..." he thinks, watching Ronan pick himself up from the ground all sweaty and plastered with golden sand. What wouldn't he give to drag him in the shower?

"The public needs to be reminded that thr Kree is a criminal, a monster, responsible for the unprovoked, unjustified murders of several Xandarian officers..." Nova Prime continues in the background.  
Something switches on in Peter's mind at her words.  
"Unprovoked?!" he thinks.  
"He told us." he says, cutting her off.  
"I beg your pardon?" Nova Prime says, feigning incomprehension.  
Peter sighs. "He told us about the bombings during the war, when you targeted civilian buildings." he clarifies.  
"Well, he was obviously manipulating the truth. - Nova Prime retorts, without missing a beat - We only bombed military targets. And then, accidents happen, my boy, especially if people chose to use children as sentient shields."  
"The Kree would disagree, I think. - Peter retorts - I have been listening to their CommRadio transmissions, madam."  
"Oh, have you? - she comments sourly - And you believed their propaganda unquestioningly, I suppose..."  
"I did my fact-checking alright. The Ravagers... they know people, even some of your lot. - Peter declares - My father told me some of your people were bragging about killing the little blue bastards before they grew up. At least some of the Nova knew exactly what they were doing." he jabs, and the video shows a grimace blooming on Nova Prime's face.

"That pirate is not your father." she comments.  
"He is my father in the only way that matters. He raised me, and I trust him, more or less. And then I checked again, on the service rolls of the Nova Corps. Many people owe me favours, and we are heroes on Xandar... - he continues - Did you realise that Ronan killed only pilots that were involved in the bombings? My gut feeling tells me that he did it on purpose." he adds.  
The grimace on Nova Prime's face deepens. Good, Peter thinks.  
"So, technically, for the Kree those people were war criminals. - he argues - And, technically, Ronan was still part of the Kree law enforcement, so, technically speaking of course, he was operating within the law when he spattered those men's brains all over the Dark Aster. Those were lawful executions, not assassinations."  
"It was a barbarous act." Nova Prime insists.  
Peter shrugs. "If you shoot someone in the head, you get the same result. That was just more theatrical." he argues from experience. He has done that sort of thing before, when the situation required it.

"What is your point, Star-Lord?" Nova Prime asks wearily. He hasn't got her 100% cornered, but she is feeling the pressure.  
"My point is that I didn't understand why you are still so desperate to cover this up." he replies.  
Nova Prime's eyes go a little bit wide. He has her.  
"It was before your term of service as Nova Prime, so I didn't get why you didn't denounce that as a fault of the previous holder of your office and cleaned the slate. - he continues - But then I checked those rolls of service again. The guy who gave the order, he was your first husband, and one of the pilots was his son from his first wife. You don't want to be found guilty by association, isn't it?" he asks as suavely as he can.  
This time she cannot keep her calm façade up. Outrage and worry show clearly on her face.  
"I am not doing this for my own personal benefit. - she declares - Do you have any idea of what the consequences would be if such slander reached the public?" she hisses then.  
Peter shrugs again. "I don't know. - he admits candidly - Maybe you folks would stop seeing yourself as the victims and the good guys and take responsability for what you did in the war?" he offers.  
"Maybe the Xandarian citizens won't be so hasty in believing all of what you top brass say? - he adds, twisting the knife - Doesn't seem so bad to me." he concludes. He knows he is not a hero or even a 100% good guy, but he has the honesty to admit it. He doesn't pretend to be what he is not, and neither do his fellow Guardians.

"What do you want, you little piratical scoundrel?" she spits.  
"I want you to leave Ronan the hell alone. - Peter declares firmly - He has done horrible things, but at least he has the decency to feel guilty about them, and to accept his punishment for them."  
While you are still trying to deny that you have bombed a temple full of children, and schools, and hospitals, he thinks.  
"We'll make sure that he doesn't relapse, but you Nova need to stop trying to screw him over. - Peter adds - He is our responsibility, and we'll take care of him, even if it takes going against you." he declares.  
"Would you really go against the Nova Empire for the likes of him?" Nova Prime asks, quirking an eyebrow in disbelief.  
Peter sighs. "Which part of 'he is one of us now' is unclear to you, madam?" he asks.

Nova Prime gives him a long, hard, unblinking stare, which he returns unflinchingly.  
"If I find you anywhere near Nova space, I'll have my people shoot you down. - she announces - I won't have your bleeding hearts threaten the stability and public order of Xandar."  
Peter shrugs. "You can keep it. The Universe is big, and Xandar was always a bit overrated as a holiday destination. - he replies with a big grin - Farewell and adieu, madam." he salutes.

The conversation is abruptly cut and Peter sighs in relief.  
The deed is done. It needed to be done.  
He is disappointed, but not surprised that the Xandarian government has proven to be as hypocritical and pig-headed as Yondu had told him it would be. He suspects most governments are, and he supposes it is fair enough.  
What's not fair is tormenting people to keep up a lie. They can't let them do that, they all agreed about it.  
The Xandarians offloaded Ronan to them, because they didn't want to deal with the hassle of keeping him. They told them to take care of him and they did.  
He was broken when he arrived, but he has managed to rebuild himself from the foundations up, challenging what he was, opening himself up to change.  
He is no longer the person Thanos or his grandfather wanted him to be. He is brave, and kind, and sometimes still so lost...

Peter finds himself reminescing of how Ronan has tried to teach him, Drax and Gamora about something called _sia_ , some kind of meditation trick that allows people to see blows coming before they do, and how happy and proud he was when Drax finally managed to hit him, even if it gave him a black eye, of the wonder in his eyes at seeing new planets and trying new things, and of how weirded out he looked when he caught himself humming one of Peter's Terran songs...  
Peter knows that during the course of the year or so Ronan has spent with them, he has fallen in love with him. They all have, one way or another, some romantically, some more like family.  
He is part of their life now, and no one can try to harm him without having to deal with them.

Peter sighs and stretches. He has spent far too much time brooding in there, he decides. He quickly rummages in one of the storage compartments in the cockpit and quickly finds his freesbee.  
When he was a kid on Terra, it was hugely popular, but most of the people he has met in space so far don't seem to know it. This is the perfect time to introduce the Guardians to it.  
He jumps off the gangway into the sand and lets fly, shouting "Incoming!".  
Gamora turns and catches without effort, but with a puzzled expression.  
"What is that?" she asks, turning the plastic disc in her hands.  
"It's a freesbee. - he replies - A Terran toy. It's pefect for the beach." he adds.  
The disc is passed on to Drax and then to Ronan, who examine it in turn.

Rocket and Groot abandon their construction project and come closer.  
"What does it do?" Rocket asks.  
"It flies. - Peter replies - You throw it at someone, and they catch it. It's easy. Want to try?" he asks.  
Rocket nods. Groot jumps up and down in enthusiasm, snatches the disc from Ronan's hands and throws it at Drax, who catches easy.  
"It seems a bit too easy." the Destroyer comments.  
"Then we'll make it harder. - Peter proposes - Left hand only. And running. How does that sound?"  
"That's more like it!" Drax approves, starting to run and throwing the disc at Gamora.  
Soon the game degenerates ito trying to steal someone else's catch and trying improbable trick shots. They roll into the sand and end up in the water, laughing and cursing each other.  
They are his family, Peter thinks, nothing is more important to him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: some language, mentions of Sane, Safe and Consensual (SSC) BDSM, and, quite obviously, Ronan's confused boner.
> 
> Sorry about the delay in posting, I was abroad with little internet access on and off since mid-December.

The mercenaries who have tried to capture Star-Lord on Shit Prime attack again, a couple of times in the following months. They think they have a tactical advantage over them thanks to their interference generator. They are wrong.  
Rocket has managed to re-tune Star-Lord's implants and shield them. He is no longer in any pain when subjected to the machine, but the mercs don't know it and that affords them the occasion to ambush them and capture a couple of them.  
Gamora proves to be the most convincing of the team and, left to her care, the mercenaries reveal the identity of the person who commissioned the hit.  
It is a certain K'se We'al, a businessman they say.  
Ronan has never heard of him before, but Star-Lord seems to recall the name. A quick comm to Yondu solves the conundrum.

"You are looking for We'al? - the centaurian asks - What has the perplexing bastard gotten himself into, this time?" he asks.  
Ronan has the impression that he is saying far less than he knows.  
"He paid for a hit on me." Star-Lord reveals, and immediately Yondu's expression darkens.  
"What?! Are you sure?! That is not We'al's usual gig, he is a professional thief and fence. He doesn't do hits! And he wouldn't do that, I mean, you're my kid!" he objects. Ronan has the impression that Yondu's relationship with their quarry wasn't a strictly professional one. Star-Lord does not look entirely pleased.

"Well, Da, sorry to break your heart, but he did. The intel is pretty solid. - Star-Lord confirms - So pretty please, we need to know where to find him." he adds with his most endearing expression.  
Yondu still hesitates. That We'al must have been a very good lay.

"We're not gonna hurt him, much. - Star-Lord promises, trying to assuage him - He's a middleman, right? We just want to know who is he working for." he adds.  
The Ravager Captain sighs and rolls his eyes.  
"I don't know where he bunks anymore, these days, but he has opened an artsy club, the Silk Den. It's on K'soth, in the Spartax quadrant." he reveals.  
"Ha! Thanks, Da! You are awesome!" Star-Lord exclaims.  
Yondu ends up smiling in spite of himself. "Take care, kid. Things might not be as they seem. We'al is... peculiar, but he was never a bad person. It might be a misunderstanding. - he says, but he doesn't sound so convinced anymore - Try to talk to him before your buddies break him. Please. Do it for me." he adds, making almost puppy eyes.  
"Is he so important to you?" Star-Lord asks, tilting his head in confusion.  
Yondu sighs and rubs his crest implant wearily. "He helped me in a difficult moment. I owe him much." he confesses.  
"I can't promise anything, Da. If he comes after me I'll stop him, whatever it takes, but if he doesn't... I'll be cautious." Star-Lord declares.  
"Can't ask for more. - Yondu acquiesces - Good hunting, kid." he adds wistfully, switching off the call.  
"Thanks, Da..." Star-Lord adds in a whisper. If he had not been so close to almost touch him, Ronan would have missed it.

As soon as the call is closed, they set their course for K'soth, and soon find the place indicated by Yondu. Things start getting complicated, then.  
"It's a dungeon." Star-Lord reveals after a round of scouting.  
"Meaning?" Drax asks. From the expression on Gamora's face ot doesn't bode well.  
"It's a club for practitioners of BDSM." she explains.  
"Pama help us!" Ronan thinks. He knows what that means, he has heard about it before in Hala. Back then it was one of those baffling barbarian practices which were frowned upon by everyone, now it is something very real and close.  
Rocket groans too. Only Groot seems to be still oblivious. It is better that way, he is still in his early adolescence. That is not something he should know about until he reaches the age of consent, whatever it might be for plant people.

"And we need to infiltrate it, because We'al is the owner of the place." Star-Lord adds.  
"I'll go with you." Gamora offers straight away.  
"You can't. - Star-Lord replies grimly - It's for gay men only." he reveals.  
Rocket erupts into a hysterical giggle, Drax goes deep brown in a second.

"No. Just no. Don't even think about asking me." Rocket declares. His fur is standing on end.  
"I wasn't going to. - Star-Lord reassures him - And not even you, Drax. This requires subtlety." he adds. The Destroyer almost deflates in obvious relief.  
Ronan feels his heart starting to beat harder and harder with anticipation. Or fear. Or excitement. Hard to tell.

"I am afraid it will have to be you, Ronan." Star-Lord says.  
Ronan somehow manages to remain almost impassive.  
"Of course. - he says - It is the most logical course of action. I even have the perfect disguise..." he adds, making the ring in his collar tinkle in an attempt to make light of the situation.  
"I wouldn't ask this of you in other circumstances..." Star-Lord adds, looking a bit desolate  
Ronan smiles at him and pats his shoulder in reassurance.  
"I know. - he says - I trust you." he adds and Star-Lord loses a bit of his lost look and smiles. Ronan would do just about anything to make him smile like that.  
"Let's get this done, then. - he says - What do we have to do?" he asks.

"Right..." Star Lord exhales nervously. They are hiding behind a street corner across the road from the Silk Den, dressed, or rather undressed, in his case, for their roles.  
Ronan is wearing his leather jacket with no shirt of jumper underneath, and, upon Star-Lord's insistence, his Xandarian trousers. A thin chain is attached to his collar. So far he is holding it himself, but soon he will have to give it to the Terran.  
Of the whole situation, that is the aspect that worries him the least. No matter how much their relationship might have deepened and evolved since its inception, he is still Star-Lord's _haaq_ and the Terran is still his master. He feels no shame in admitting it.

"So that's the plan. - Star-Lord continues - Step one: we try to blend in and look out for that We'al guy. Step two: we corner him. Step three: we make him tell us who is his boss. Step four: we bash his head in, and, step five, we run for it. Step four is optional." he adds sheepishly.  
Ronan nods. "It sounds like a good plan." he declares.

Star-Lord sighs again. Something bothers him.  
"Once we get in there you are my slave." he says.  
"In case you have forgotten, Star-Lord, I _am_ your slave." Ronan points out, rather piqued.  
"You're my retainer. It's different. - Star-Lord objects - What I mean is that they will expect me to... to do things to you..." he tries to explain. Ronan stays silent, waiting for him to continue.  
"I'll try to steer us away from... situations, that we have no interest in joining, but..." he hesitates still.  
"It might come to the point when I have to do _something_ to you or risk blowing our cover to hell, do you understand?" he finally blurts out, growing bright pink in the face.  
"I do. I know it is a possibility, but I trust you. I know you won't cause me undue harm." Ronan replies, feeling his own face heat up at the idea of Star-Lord doing _things_ to him. He nearly wishes that it would be the case.

"Is there anything you would absolutely avoid, if it comes to that?" Star-Lord asks with a sigh. He raises a hand to ruffle his hair and pauses mid-motion. He is impeccably groomed and dressed in his best leathers, all buttoned up with no extra skin on display, as befits a dom.  
"Anything you wouldn't be comfortable with?" he adds.  
"I'll take off my jacket, but no extra clothes. No nudity." Ronan replies. There is a part of him that wants to be naked in front of Star-Lord, but not even that bit of him wants an audience when it happens.  
"Fair enough. - Star-Lord agrees - I'll try to keep the humiliation and the sexual content to the min. That might mean pain, though." he warns.  
Ronan tries to stifle a chuckle. "I am no stranger to pain, I think I can handle it." he declares.  
Star-Lord huffs and rolls his eyes. "Don't be a hero. You are allowed to bail out in these plays. - he explains - We need to agree on a safe word. When you say it, it's over. That's how it works."  
"You've done this before..." Ronan says.  
Star-Lord nods. "One of my partners was into it. She taught me the basics. - he narrates - Now for the safe word...?" he prompts.  
"Milano." Ronan replies straight away. That ship represents home and safety for him, now.  
Star-Lord catches his meaning and smiles softly.  
"Let's go then. The sooner we're in, the sooner we can get out." he declares.  
Ronan nods and offers the end of the chain to him with a curt bow.  
"Of course, my Lord..." he drawls, grinning and winking.  
Star-Lord chuckles and grabs the chain, then activates the holomorphic resonator Rocket has added to his implants. His face blurs for a moment, then returns sharp and defined.  
Ronan is now looking into the face of a stranger, a dark-haired, pale-skinned, blue-blooded Xandarian, his features fine and aristocratic, his expression schooled into a mask of composure and arrogance.  
It would fool any stranger but Ronan sees the smile at the corner of his mouth and the softness in his eyes.  
That is still _his_ Star-Lord, he has nothing to fear or worry from him, so when he starts walking to the front door of the club, leading him by the chain, he follows without protest, straight into the enemy's den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And from next chapter... sexytimes! (took me long enough, didn't it?)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains background Sane, Safe and Consensual (SSC) BDSM scenes, a M/M lime with bondage and blood-play, and, quite obviously, Ronan's confused (and then maybe not-so-confused-anymore-but-who-knows?) boner.
> 
> I would definitely say it is NSFW.
> 
> Enjoy!

One of the first things cadets of the Kree Academy are taught about infiltration is that getting out of an enemy structure is always far harder then getting in. Therefore, the instructors say, it is vital to observe and memorise all possible escape routes for eventual use.  
Observation is a second nature to Ronan. As they enter the lobby of the Silk Den and Star-Lord negotiates their entrance fees, he unobtrusively observes the room, noting the alcove of the cloakroom, a door behind the counter that must lead to some kind of office and the big, ornate double doors leading deeper into the club.

The decor is lavish but tasteful, done mainly in black and cream, with understated golden accents. The music is soft and soothing and the crested alien at the counter is wearing an elegant black-and-cream livery. The look and feel of the place communicates an aura of refinement and luxury. It is a sophisticated place, that much is sure.

Notices on brass panels alert that the Silk Den is an alcohol-free establishment and that drug use on the premises will not be tolerated, another stresses the importance of risk assessment and consent in all the activities performed in the club, and an even bigger one alerts that entrance is strictly forbidden to people younger than the age of consent of their respective species and culture.  
Ronan is heartened by the sight. It seems that the management is trying to operate within strict legal requirements. It is a comforting thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees some money change hands between Star-Lord and the concierge, then two doormen push open the big inner doors for them.  
"Come." Star-Lord orders, giving the chain a light tug. Ronan half-bows in acknowledgement and follows his suit. They are in, and it was far more easy than he would have thought.

The decor of the inner areas of the club is much like that of the lobby. Ronan barely notices it though, and the memorisation of escape routes is all but forgotten in a mere moment. His mind is boggled by the people who are in there and by the things they are doing.

The crowd of patrons is quite diverse for age and species. Skin of more then a dozen colours is exposed for all to see, and in far larger quantities than he has ever imagined.  
As under-dressed as he might feel, he is one of the least naked among the "slaves". Collars are _de rigeur_ it seems, proper clothes are not.  
As they walk towards the bar he sees several men in nothing more than underwear, at least one wearing leather trousers that leave his backside uncovered and a few wearing only padlocked chastity girdles or nothing at all.

A small crowd is lounging on an isle of plush, leather-upholstered sofas. They are watching a feather-crested alien tie up his partner, a yellow-skinned, long-limbed young man, using purple-tinted silken ropes. The youngster is likely uncomfortable, with his limbs stretched and tensed as they are, but he is smiling peacefully, and as they pass by, his "master" is asking him if he is alright. What could amount to torture in another context, here appears pleasant, almost artistic in a way.

Closer to the bar, another "master" is performing with two "slaves", dripping coloured wax on their skins as if to form a painting. They hiss in discomfort, but the expressions on their faces are ecstatic.  
Ronan does not know what to think.

"Let's have a drink. - Star-Lord proposes - The first one is included in the entrance fee."  
Ronan nods and they end up at the bar. As per house policy, they don't serve alcohol, but that doesn't prevent them from having a long and varied cocktail menu. Ronan ends up with a cup of something creamy and nutty with a distinct chilli afterburn. It is really good and he drinks it in tiny sips to make it last.

Star-Lord guides them towards an empty sofa and sits down. Ronan sits on the floor at his side, leaning his back against his legs.  
"What are you doing?" Star-Lord whispers in Kree. Ronan has been teaching him the language, as the same time as Star-Lord has been teaching him Terran. They are both rare languages throughout the Galaxy and they use them as a mode of stealth communication.  
"Keeping up the charade." Ronan replies. He is secretly glad of being able to speak in his native language.  
Star-Lord sighs and sips his cocktail.  
"What now?" Ronan asks.  
"I'm looking for the manager. He'll be able to point us towards We'al." Star-Lord replies.  
"I thought We'al was the manager." Ronan objects.  
"He is the owner. The manager is a guy called Mr O. - the Terran explains - Look out for someone who is especially chatty with wealthy patrons." he instructs.  
Ronan nods. "Will do."

Meanwhile, the bondage performance has finished and the stage has been taken by a couple of dark-skinned males one of which is flogging the other's back. Sounds of pain spill from the man's lips, but his partner doesn't stop. He won't until the sub says the safe-word. Ronan is in equal parts fascinated and horrified.

He tries to look out for the manager, but everywhere he looks, he sees things that distract him.  
Here two men are embracing and kissing tenderly, there a young man spanks his older partner with what looks like a paddle of some kind. Everywhere tenderness and violence, care and ownership are mixed in a way that makes the difference hard to spot and he is trying very hard not to feel aroused by it.  
He doesn't want Star-Lord to dominate him like that. Or does he? He cannot tell anymore.

A hand squeezes his shoulder. Ronan nearly startles.  
"I think I have found him. - Star-Lord announces - Wait here for me. I'll go and have a chat with him." he says, and as soon as the Kree acquiesces, he ties the chain to the armrest of the sofa and walks away.  
Now that he is not so overwhelmingly close, Ronan feels his tension ease a bit and can finally think past the turmoil of conflicting desires within him. He needs to calm down and concentrate if he doesn't want to jeopardise the mission. Closing his eyes, he tries to meditate away the urges of his body, but soon someone plonks himself on the floor next to him, breaking his concentration.  
It is the yellow-skinned youngster from the bondage performance and a big, impish grin is plastered on his youthful face.

"Hey, handsome. - the stranger says - Looks like your dom has left you alone. Don't worry, I'll keep you company." he offers.  
"Name's Lukan." he adds in an afterthought.  
"You're Xandarian." Ronan says without a hint of doubt.  
Lukan grins even more widely. "Got it in one! - he confirms - And you can only be a Kree. I thought you guys weren't into this sort of thing..." he comments slyly.  
Ronan shrugs. "It is an age of change. I am experimenting." he replies dispassionately.  
"With a Xandarian." Lukan notes.  
Ronan shrugs again. "The treaty says that they are our new best friends, doesn't it?" he comments with as much sarcasm as he can manage.  
Lukan laughs nervously. "Your government stuffed you well and good. - he says - Ours did too. You can't imagine how the taxes rose to finance the war in the last few years. And freedom of speech was basically scrapped!" he adds indignantly.  
Ronan looks at him with surprise. "I thought all Xandarians supported the war." he says.  
"Ha! The government wished they did! - Lukan replies - I was an anti-war activist, before I had to leave. They accused all my posse of intelligence with the enemy because we were looking into war crimes." he reveals.  
For a moment, Ronan is rendered totally speechless.  
"W-were you?" he manages.  
Lukan nods enthusiastically. "The government wanted us to believe that it was a war for freedom and for the defense of our civilisation, but we knew that it wasn't so. - he continues - I mean, you people might be a bunch of stuck-up prudes, no offense meant, but it was clear that the main reason for the war was the control of the asteroid mines in the XK-27 quadrant." he declares assuredly.

Ronan blinks a few times, feeling his world reassert itself once more. Xandarians opposing the war. That was... unexpected.  
"So they tried to silence you?" he asks.  
Lukan nods. "I left. I like bondage, but I knew I wouldn't fancy prison. - he replies - Wandered here and there, and finally ended up here. Now that the war between Spartax and Shi'ar is hopefully winding to a close, it's a nice place to be." he explains nonchalantly.  
Ronan files the information away for later and nods politely.  
"And what do you do normally?" he asks.  
"I am a performer. I do dance, theater, video-art. A bit of everything, really - Lukan replies proudly - Me and my partner, we have founded a performing arts company. We are still small, but we're growing steadily." he adds, jerking his head towards the feather-crested guy who was performing with him earlier.  
"Oh, and are you staging some show?" Ronan asks politely. Talking to this man is a lot less awkward than looking at people pleasuring each other with pain. He had never thought he could have a meaningful conversation with a Xandarian without wanting to kill them. He should have imagined that the citizens wouldn't necessary align with their government. They didn't in the Empire, even if the entire society was more disciplined and rigid.  
"We are auditioning for some of the roles. Interested?" Lukan asks, winking at him.  
"Oh, no. I have no artistic training whatsoever. I was a soldier." Ronan replies awkwardly, feeling himself blush.  
"Ah, I should have imagined. You have the _physique du rôle_. - Lukan comments - We could have used a handsome blue man in the company, though. The show is going to be based a lot on colour and movement." he explains.  
"What is it about?" Ronan asks, suddenly genuinely curious.  
"It's an allegory of the senselessness of war and the need for peace and brotherhood in the Galaxy. - Lukan explains - It's a topical issue around here. The Spartoi and the Shi'ar have been at war for years, but now they're treating, and rumor has it that they are going to solve everything with a royal marriage. Make love, not war. Isn't it cool?" he reveals.  
"Yes, it seems a desirable state of things." Ronan admits ruefully.  
"What's your name again?" Lukan asks.  
"I am Coehl." the Kree replies. He hopes his father is not going to be angry at him from the underworld for using his name in what amounts to a disreputable establishment.

"Well, Coehl, you and your partner are doing more or less the same, on a smaller scale. - the Xandarian offers - Many people in the club are raring to see you two perform, you know? They find the idea of a Xandarian and a Kree together very exciting..." he adds, laying a hand on Ronan's thigh.  
The Kree startles a bit and lowers his eyes in embarrassment. Someone shares their opinion, it seems.

"Aren't you supposed to be a sub too?" he asks pointedly.  
Lukan chuckles. "I am a switch, actually. With some people I sub, with some I dom. - he replies - Your dom seems to have little interest in you..." he adds suavely.  
"I could dom you, if you want... - he offers - I like you. I'd be gentle, promise. I'd make you feel good..." he whispers in his ear.  
Ronan feels like his face is bursting in flames. He backs away a bit, trying to put some space between him and Lukan. The performer is attractive, he cannot deny it, with his lithe, almost soft body, that smooth, bright yellow skin and that smile, and he is basically naked and very willing...  
But he is not Star-Lord, and that makes all the difference, he thinks, casting a quick glance at his master.

"Sorry, but I have to decline your offer, however enticing." he replies, trying to be gentle, because he doesn't dislike Lukan. It's just... he doesn't _want_ him, not like he wants Star-Lord.  
"It would make my professional life complicated if I didn't." he adds.  
"He's your boss?!" Lukan asks, a bit worried.  
Ronan gives Star-Lord another, longer glance. He is my everything, he thinks.  
"He is a businessman. I am his butler. - he replies, twisting the truth without outright lying - Our relationship only recently evolved to this kind of... practices." he adds.  
"You are in love with him." Lukan says without a hint of doubt.  
Ronan is rendered speechless again. "What...?! How...?!" he stammers.  
Lukan smiles once more, but this time it is all soft and gentle. "The way you look at him. - he explains - I'd die to have someone look at me that way. Does he know?" he asks.  
Ronan shakes his head, not even daring to talk.  
"Why?" Lukan asks gently.  
"I... it's complicated. - the Kree sighs - I..."  
"You don't know if it is mutual?" the Xandarian concludes for him.  
"Yes..." Ronan confirms, finally realising that the key issue is exactly _that_.

More than any cultural prohibition about mixed couples or master- _haaq_ relationships, more than the reproach reserved for men who still waste their time in dalliances with other men after graduating from the Academy, _that_ is the reason why he is still resisting his own inclinations and desires.  
He knows that Star-Lord and Gamora want him, but somehow this is no longer enough. Maybe it never was.  
Simple lust doesn't do it for him anymore, he needs them to love him back, because if he surrenders to them, it will be nothing less than complete surrender. He will give himself up to them heart, body and soul, and he needs to know that they will keep him, that they will truly care for him, for however long as it may last.  
He is no good at halfway solutions. That has not changed, and likely it never will.

"Then there is only one way to know. - Lukan declares, switching back to friendly and comforting - You'll have to ask him, mate. Or at least tell him about your feelings." he adds, patting his shoulder in a friendly gesture.  
"I'm not very good at that. - Ronan confesses - I find it very embarrassing."  
Lukan smiles. "Life starts at the end of the comfort zone, they say... - he provokes - Oh, there comes your partner..." he adds then, resuming his impish persona. Ronan tries to turn, but Lukan grabs his chin and holds him still.  
"He looks quite jealous... - he whispers placing his face close enough to Ronan's that it will probably look like if Lukan is kissing him - Good luck, handsome... and if it all goes to hell, remember me, alright?" he concludes, then in a fluid movement he is back on his feet and walking away, leaving a totally flabbergasted Kree behind.

"What the hell happened?" Star-Lord hisses, as soon as he is back. A scowl is painted on his face.  
Maybe Lukan was right. Maybe he is jealous. That is a good sign, right?  
Ronan is still confused by the turn of events and by his sudden epiphany. "That man... he was... he propositioned me..." he replies, part indignant and part surprised.  
Star-Lord shakes his head. "Cheeky bastard! - he exclaims - Well, you are attractive. I should have imagined it would happen..." he comments, sighing and flopping on the sofa.  
"So, I managed to speak with the manager. - he reprises after a brief pause - Apparently We'al has communicated with him and would like very much to see us... perform. Apparently he likes to watch." he reveals.  
"And that would grant us a _parlay_ with him?" Ronan asks, feigning disinterest. At the mere idea of Star-Lord actually doing _something_ to him, his manhood jumps to attention.  
"Yes, it would. - Star-Lord replies, also very neutral - But you don't have to do this. We can find another way of getting to him, maybe follow him after he leaves in the morning..." he adds, losing a lot of his composure.  
"This is the easiest way of getting what we want. - Ronan retorts - I have told you, I don't care about... doing this." he lies.  
He cares a lot. He wants it, at least this to know how it feels.

Star-Lord's eyes flash for a moment, then his expression returns smooth and pleasant.  
"Let's do this then." he adds, unwinding the chain from the armrest and standing up. Ronan follows him to the center of the room, pretending that he doesn't see the rest of the people in the club staring at them with eager anticipation.  
They reach an area where chains hang from the ceiling and are bolted on the floor. A small rack of diverse instruments is laid out on a table nearby. Ronan desperately tries not to look that way. He is not comfortable with the arousal he is deriving from the situation, but he cannot deny it. Given what sort of trousers he is wearing, probably all of the people in the room are aware of it as well...

"Take your jacket off." Star-Lord orders. His voice is sharp and steely and for some reason that gets to him like few things before.  
His cock twitches desperately in his trousers. The jacket hits the floor in record time.  
Star-Lord guides him to stand below the chains.  
"Raise your arms." he orders. He snaps the cuffs attached to them around his wrists, then kneels to fasten the chains bolted on the floor to his ankles. He is spread-eagled and nearly unable to move, but more than the chains, it is Star-Lord's gaze that pins him inexhorably. Scalding hot and possessive... nothing much has happened, and he is already trembling just because of it.

"Let's give them a show... - he says heatedly - But remember that you can stop it whenever you want. You just need to say the word." he adds, more gently as he disappears behind him.  
Ronan nods and closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he tries to steel himself for the first blow.  
This is the position in which prisoners used to be flogged, back in the day, and there is a flog handy, on that little table. It all makes sense.  
A blindfold covers his eyes, prolonging his wait.  
He doesn't mind too much. It's not as if he really likes Star-Lord's Xandarian disguise.  
It is the face of a stranger to him, and he'd much prefer looking at the Terran's true countenance, at the visage he has learned to love, but he knows he cannot.  
At least his voice and his scent are unchanged. It is enough for him to feel a little bit like he is in heaven anyway.

He is expecting pain, so when he feels the soft, warm touch of Star-Lord's hands on his back, he nearly cries out in pleasure and surprise.  
He catches himself at the last moment and clenches his teeth to prevent himself from making a sound. He can't give in so soon.

Those warm, clever hands roam all over his back, a bare brush of fingers down his spine, then a palm pressed against his lower back, kneading, teasing and then feather-light again, so that he won't know what to expect next.  
Ronan has known for a while that he yearns for closeness and touch, that he finds it comforting, but this is much more, this is innocent and maddening at the same time, and he loves it.  
Keeping silent becomes harder nd harder as Star-Lord's fingers starts wandering up and down his neck and over the back of his head. He has always hated being bald, but for once he doesn't mind, because, by the grace of Pama, he likes the feeling of the Terran's blunt nails raking gently on his scalp and he can't help arching into his touch.

Star-Lord's breath is warm against his skin, and heavy with lust, as he dreamed it would be.  
It is already overwhelmingly good, but then Star-Lord shifts his hand to his front, and all of a sudden it becomes even better, and he wraps his hands around the chains to be able to hold on to something because he fears he might fall apart otherwise.  
Gentle, explorative touches trace his chest and abdomen, then his arms, up to where the chains are fastened around his wrists, and he can feel Star-Lord's breath on his face and he knows that it would take hardly anything for his master's lips to claim his own, and he wants it, he wants it so hard that he cannot think of anything else.  
He can feel the warmth of Star-Lord's body getting closer and closer and he tenses up unbearably, wating, wanting...

When the Terran's nails rake across his pebbled nipples, filling him with a mixture of pain and delight, he cannot contain a whimper and Star-Lord suddenly retreats with a low growl.  
Ronan curses inwardly. If he had just managed to keep quiet for a moment more...  
He hears Star-Lord taking something from the rack and the next thing he knows, something hard and cold and edgy is sliding against his skin. It takes him a moment to realise that it is the blind side of some sort of knife.  
"Some people here would like to have you for themselves, my _haaq_... - Star-Lord says suavely - I shall mark you as mine, then, so that all may know it." he declares, and suddenly the sharp edge of the knife bites into his skin, along his ribs, so quick and light that he might have imagined, only the tiny, superficial cut stings, and he can feel the blood start to well, and then something warm and wet is on him.

Star-Lord is licking the wound clean with his tongue, and it stings even more, but it feels so good... It is so amazing and overwhelming that he cannot control himself.  
He cries out, and arches helplessly against his touch, and Star-Lord cuts him again, and again, cold blade and warm mouth, pleasure and pain so mingled that he cannot distinguish them anymore and he doesn't care.  
He is whimpering with every breath. He trembles, and his legs can hardly support him any longer.  
He barely remembers that there are other people looking at them. They don't matter, Star-Lord is the only one that matters, the only one that ever did, and he hopes that this is not just for show, because it is all he would have dreamed of, if he had ever allowed himself to dream of such things.

"You are mine." Star-Lord declares again. He is now standing at his back once more and his mouth traces lines down his neck and across his shoulders.  
He is stating nothing but the truth.

"Say it. Tell them." Star-Lord orders. He bites down on the muscle connecting his neck and left shoulder, hard enough to hurt slightly on top of how good it feels, and sucks on the skin to make sure that it will bruise, that he will be marked for at least a little while. For some reason that mixture of feelings absolutely strips him of control.  
"Yes! - he cries out - I am yours! Oh, fuck!"  
He doesn't usually curse, but when Star-Lord bites him again, he cannot think.  
He doesn't care that everyone is looking, he doesn't care about what he had told the Terran before they got in the club, he just wants Star-Lord to strip him bare and fuck him there and then, in the middle of the room.

Before he can start to babble and maybe blow their cover, Star-Lord slips in front of him again, and this time their lips crash together, hard and passionate. The Terran's mouth tastes like his own blood and he does not know exactly what he is doing, but Star-Lord takes control of the kiss, clamping a hand against the back of his neck to prevent him from escaping (as if he would), and it feels wonderful.  
Their bodies are pressed close and something hard is digging in his tigh, and he is sure it is not a gun, they have left all weapons on the ship...

"Oh!" he thinks, realising what is the most likely, no, only explanation. His own manhood twitches in response and he moans into the kiss.  
He can't think, he can hardly breathe. It is almost too much.  
Star-Lord finally breaks the kiss, releasing him. Ronan gasps for air and whimpers quietly, hungry for more.

"I think they learned the lesson. And you did too, didn't you?" Star-Lord growls, hovering close enough for him to imagine that it could continue.  
His tongue darts lightning-quick against his lips, and Ronan tries to somehow capture him again, but all he gets is a sharp tap with a finger against his nose.  
"No, bluebell, this is not why we started this." he chides gently.  
The painless but resounding blow and the nickname manage to break through the lust that has clouded his judgement. He has gotten carried away by the charade, but can Star-Lord truly blame him for that, seeing that it is mostly his fault?  
"Apologies, my Lord..." he manages through gritted teeth. He is still so hard that it is becoming uncomfortable, and now that the haze of lust is gone, he is starting to feel his arms ache from the tension and the nicks scattered on his torso sting and burn.  
"It's alright. Let's get you out of this." Star-Lord retorts softly, confusing him even further by gently petting his cheek.

The chains are loosened and the blindfold discarded. Ronan feels weak and shaky and the soft lighting of the club manages to feel overbright and dazzling.  
Star-Lord helps him to a sofa. The Terran's hands shake slightly and his voice does too when he asks him "Are you alright?".  
Ronan meets his eyes briefly. Star-Lord looks as confused and dazed as he is. He is glad that their _moment_ has affected him as strongly, but he doesn't know how to express his feelings and that is not the right moment anyway, so he just drops his gaze and nods.  
"I need to speak with the manager again. Will you be alright if I..." Star-Lord asks.  
Ronan nods again. "I am fine." he declares.  
Star-Lord hesitates, licks his lips (and Ronan tries very hard not to notice the smudge of blue blood near the corner of his mouth), then nods and stands to leave.

Ronan's moment of solitude doesn't last long though. In a moment, Lukan has appeared with a glass of some beverage in his hands.  
"Here, have this, it'll do you good. - the performer says, thrusting the cocktail into Ronan's hands - You are a lucky bastard you know?" he adds as the Kree starts to sip on the pinkish sweet-salty liquid. It tastes like some sort of isotonic sports drink. He realises that he needed it.  
"Am I?" he retorts, puzzled.  
Lukan laughs. "Let's put it this way... that thing you and your master did there... It was the sexiest thing I've seen in this club since, like, forever. - he reveals - I'd give lots to have someone who knows me and cares for me enough to top me with so much feeling and passion. And you said you two have just started..." he comments dreamily.  
Ronan feels himself blushing again. It is weird how can he still feel embarassed after he has basically had public sex with his master.  
"It was the first time we tried something like... _that_." he confesses. The Xandarian is so friendly and chatty and totally uninhibited that... it just feels right to talk to him about what happened.

Lukan whistles in admiration.  
"Like I said, you are a lucky bastard, mate. - he continues with a chuckle and a light shake of his raven-haired head - Don't let your chance pass because you are too afraid to talk, alright? Things like the one you two have there, they are too precious to waste. Just keep it in mind, OK?" he adds, and Ronan looks at him in confusion, because he doesn't know if they have anything, but Lukan seems so adamant. Has the Xandarian seen something that he could not?  
"Ah, gotta go now, before your master breaks me in two for talking to you again! - Lukan exclaims with a chuckle - Let me know if I was right, OK? I'm Lukan Hurst. Find me on ComNet." he adds, then saunters away, blowing him a very theatrical kiss.

"Again?! What does that guy want from you?!" Star-Lord exclaims, definitely vexed, when he comes back.  
Ronan shrugs, feeling some of the already-healing cuts reopen.  
"Lukan? He is just trying to be friendly." he replies nonchalantly.  
Another flash passes over Star-Lord's eyes.  
Jealousy. This time it is quite clear. Star-Lord is actually jealous of him.  
"Are you upset about it? - he asks - You never told me... you never said I wasn't allowed to meet new people." he adds quietly.  
Star-Lord sighs and lowers his head. "Look, I'm sorry... I'm a bit high-strung about this situation. - he says, rubbing his forehead - Of course you are allowed to make friends, bluebell. Was that guy Xandarian?" he adds with a forced smile.  
Ronan acquiesces. "Things change. And he doesn't like their government either." he explains, forcing out a smile too. The mood has shifted, and not in a happy way, even if he doesn't know why.  
"Ah. - Star-Lord comments, mildly surprised - We'al will see us now. Are you well enough to stand?" he asks, now back to being gentle and caring.  
Ronan nods and stands without any ill effect. That drink has truly worked wonders.  
"Here." Star-Lord adds, handing him his jacket. He had completely forgotten about it.  
"We left it down there." the Terran explains.  
"Thanks. - Ronan says - Shall we go then?". He drapes the jacket on his shoulder instead of donning it. He doesn't want to cover himself just yet. He enjoys bearing Star-Lord's marks on him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains minor mentions of slavery, violence and life-altering injuries.
> 
> Now back to the investigation! This chapter contains one of my first attempts, if not the first, at writing a genderqueer/agender/xenosexual alien. Let me know what you think about them.  
> As a note, I am using the LGBTQ+ convention of using "they/them" as personal pronouns for people whose gender is undisclosed, neutral, or not really important. It is not a grammatical mistake, and it is not multiple characters.
> 
> In addition to that, I have managed to sneak in my head-canon about how Yondu has lost his Centaurian crest.
> 
> Enjoy!

They are led by the manager through an ensconced door and up a flight of stairs, into a private area of the club which is even more lavish and sumptuous than the lower floor.  
The concierge opens another door, paneled with some dark wood and ushers them in, closing the door behind them.

"Welcome, my guests... " greets a well-groomed creature from a leather armchair.  
Their scaly skin is a slightly iridescent lilac, and, in place of hair, their head is crowned by some kind of webbed spines, the thin, translucent skin delicately mottled with cream and ocher. Their suit is cream-coloured too, their cravat ocher, which makes their slanted laser-green eyes seem even brighter. Their angular face and their slender, elegant figure are very androgynous, and make it very hard to determine if We'al is old or young, male or female, or both, or something completely different. Even their voice gives almost no clue. They are beautiful, though.

Ronan is surprised by We'al appearance and surroundings. Knowing that their quarry is a middleman for an illicit activity and a voyeur, he was expecting some slimy, slightly disgusting person, not a refined gentleman, or rather gentle-person.  
There are several works of art in the room, most likely stolen. They seem to have been chosen to subtly fit with the room and each other.  
We'al must be a connoisseur.

"Thank you for receiving us, Mr We'al. It is a pleasure to finally meet you." Star-Lord returns the greeting.  
"The pleasure is mine. Do take a seat, please. - We'al replies with a polite nod - I have to admit, your performance was... striking. So much trust, so much intimacy... It was a pleasure to watch, like a well-conducted symphony." they declare. Ronan frowns. Watching a symphony?

"But let's not dwell on this. You said you were here for business..." We'al continues, daintily crossing their legs and smiling sweetly.  
"Yes, of course." Star-Lord replies, sitting down on the armchair opposite We'al. Ronan lowers himself down next to it, kneeling down instead of sitting to be ready to pounce when the time comes.

"I have been sent your way by a friend who has had occasions of working with you in the past. - Star-Lord explains - I require your assistance to solve a personal problem." he offers.  
"Let's hear it. I cannot promise anything until I know what the matter is, but... when there is a will there is a way, as they say..." We'al exhorts him suavely.  
"Money is not an issue." Star-Lord declares.  
We'al frowns, of all things, and shakes his head. His spines bristle a bit in displeasure.  
"Let's not ruin our conversation with talks of money yet. - he chides gently - Tell me, instead, what can I do for you?"  
Star-Lord nods politely. "That is very handsome of you, sir. - he says, then switches off the holo-morphic resonator and jumps to his feet - You can start by telling me who is the bastard who is paying for my hide!" he exclaims, thrusting a knife at We'al. There is still a smudge of blue blood on it. He must have pocketed it in the main room downstairs, when everyone was distracted by the sight of them trying to fuck each other through their clothes.  
Clever, clever Star-Lord, Ronan thinks, rising to his feet in turn.

We'al seems genuinely surprised and horrified by the situation, and recoils in their armchair. Something twitches and flicks. It's a tail. We'al has a long, sinewy, arrow-tipped tail. It's not stranger than the rest of them.  
"Oh gods! - he exclaims - You are Peter! Yondu's hatchling! I... I'd never..." he protests, raising their hands in front of him.  
"Your client might know me as Star-Lord. " the Terran insists.  
A membrane slides sideways on We'al's eyes. Their head-spines perk up.  
"You are _the_ Star-Lord? The one who defeated...? - they ask, wide-eyed - Oh, gods! Then you must be..." he starts, turning towards Ronan.  
"I am Ronan, former Supreme Accuser of the Kree Empire." he confirms.  
"Oh, but this is amazing! - We'al exclaims, clapping their hands in excitement - I am so proud of you, Peter!" they add.  
"Yeah, proud enough to sic some mercs after me!" Star-Lord insists.  
"I did no such thing! - We'al repeats - I don't know what your father told you about me, but even if I _am_ a thief, I do have some moral standards!" they declare proudly, rising to their feet too in spite of the knife.  
"Contrary to your dear father Youndu, I would never get involved in an assassination attempt!" he adds firmly. Their head-spines quiver and their tail lashes out from side to side in irritation.  
"Oh really? - Star-Lord retorts - Because some mercs did try to kidnap me and nearly killed my buddy here!" he yells stepping closer to We'al and poking them in the chest.  
"And you know what? - he asks - When one of our friends beat seven different kinds of crap out of them, they told us that _you_ had found them the job!" he concludes, poking them again.  
We'al seems to deflate a bit.  
"What company were they from?" they ask.  
"The Companions of the Silver Hand." Ronan answers for him.

A stream of loud hisses and clicks pours from We'al's lips, while the thief stomps their foot on the floor and nearly upturns the coffee table with a violent lash of their tail.  
Ronan is quite sure that their host is cursing up a storm.  
"That woman! She deceived me! She played me for a fool!" We'al exclaims finally.  
"What woman?" both Star-Lord and Ronan ask at the same time.

We'al flops back on the armchair with a theatrical gesture.  
"I don't know her name. - they reveal - She contacted me though a friend, told me that she needed my connections for something that required discretion. It happens sometimes. I don't mind doing some favours here and there." he narrates, waving a hand in the air.  
"If the price is right, you mean..." Star-Lord comments sharply.  
"If I like the person who asks them." We'al corrects stiffly.

"And you liked her." Ronan says, trying to smooth out things.  
Star-Lord is being very confrontational, but it doesn't always help when questioning someone. Sometimes a bit of empathy does the trick, instead.  
"She was fascinating. - We'al confirms - She was noblewoman from Spartax, tall and powerful like their goddesses, skin like polished teak. I didn't see her face, she was wearing a traditional veil, but I saw her eyes. They were blue. And her voice, it was like gardenias. Perfect." they comment, almost purring. Ronan frowns at the last remark. What is that supposed to mean?

"And what did this dark goddess ask you to do?" the Kree continues, directing the flow of conversation.  
Star-Lord lets him, nodding in thanks. He looks still upset, even if Ronan doesn't really understand why.  
"The crux of the matter was that she had had a youthful indiscretion with an unsuitable alien partner. - We'al replies - She had become unhappy with the guardians she had appointed for their upbringing, and wanted to retrieve them from their custody. She told me that she couldn't get personally involved, with her marriage and reputation at stake, so she asked me to act as her middleman." they explain calmly.  
"And you accepted." Ronan continues.  
We'al nods and twitches their spines. "It seemed like the chivalrous thing to do." they acquiesce.  
"So, what happened next?" he asks.  
"She left me a package. - We'al replies - It contained a DNA tracer and all the info on the hatchling, at least, that's what she told me."  
"Did you check what it contained?" Ronan asks.  
"Of course not! - the thief exclaims, indignant - She asked for the utmost discretion, I couldn't pry like that!" they add with a huff.  
Ronan rolls his eyes. "Behold the honourable thief..." he thinks.  
"So you contacted the Companions of the Silver Hand." he states.  
We'al acquiesces. "They have a reputation for being discrete and honest. And their Captain General owed me a favour. - they clarify - That's all I know."  
Ronan nods and thanks him, but the thief seem to have worked themselves up into a frenzy again.

They ruffle their spines and make a chirping sound of anguish.  
"I thought I was helping a distressed lady. I couldn't imagine I would be harming you, the hatchling of my beloved Yondu. - they declare, genuinely horrified - Had I known, nothing could have made me accept the deal, not even all the wealth of Spartax, rich in gold. You have to believe me!" they plead, chirping and trembling again.  
Star-Lord sighs and shakes his head. "I do. - he replies - But seriously, if you and Yondu are still so hung up about each other, why did you break up in the first place?" he asks.

We'al's spines droop.  
"We were sharing command of a Ravager ship, before he adopted you. We had reclaimed some historical artifacts from some ruins, and kept one for myself... It was an exquisite piece of art, and I intended to claim it as my lawful part of the loot, but he had promised it to a client. - they confess - It came to blows, nearly to a mutiny. And now he surely hates me, even though I... even though my feelings for him haven't changed." they add sheepishly.  
Star-Lord chuckles and shakes his head.  
"He came very close to begging me for your life and continued health. - Peter retorts - If he doesn't hate me after the series of stunts I pulled on him about the Orb, I doubt he'd ever be able to hate you." he adds.

"You were the one to rescue him when they chopped off his crest, weren't you? - Ronan chimes in - I've heard that it is worse than being blinded, for a Centaurian. It is likely that he owes you his ability to lead an independent, active life, and his continued sanity, such as it is." he adds with a hint of disdain. He doesn't like Star-Lord's father much.  
We'al's laser-green eyes go wide in surprise.  
"How do you know?! - he exclaims - Did he...?"  
Ronan shakes his head. "He didn't tell me, no. - he replies - He rubbed his implants when he was speaking about the debt he owes to you. It was enough." he explains.  
"How... How did that happen?" Star-Lord asks, looking vaguely nauseated.  
"It was back at the time of the Badoon raids on Centauri. They took him into slavery and mutilated him so that he wouldn't escape. Yondu was fifteen, maybe, at the time. - We'al narrates gloomily - He was beautiful, and hopeless, and I... I couldn't leave him there to die. I seduced his master and killed him, and off we went, to Knowhere. I had him restored, and told him he was free. For me was enough to know that he'd be alright. He stayed... We had years of adventures together." We'al continues. His spines quiver, and his eyes fill with tears.  
"And I ruined it all... for greed. - he sniffles - I was an idiot." he berates himself.

"Don't despair, my friend. Maybe it's not as bad as it seemed back then. Time and distance mend many wounds. - Peter tries to cheer him up, laying a hand on his thin shoulder - Maybe you should give him a call... Here is the number." he adds, passing a small datachip to the thief, who snatches it, and suddenly switches from tearful desolation to chirruping, beaming joy.  
They hug Star-Lord, thanking him profusely and vowing to repay their debt, somehow, saying that Star-Lord would only have to ask and they'd do whatever it takes, if only Yondu would take him back...

Being in love looks like being stuck to the biggest emotional roller-coaster imaginable, Ronan muses to himself, but from what little he knows about it, it seems worth it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains Peter's confused boner, discussions on consent, and plot thickening. This is turning out to be a massive Marvel-style saga...

"So, it looks like we are going to Spartax, next." Peter says, stretching and yawning.  
He and Ronan are sitting on top of the Milano. The sun is dawning on K'soth. Theirs has been a long night, but Peter doesn't feel like going to sleep just yet and by the looks of it, neither does Ronan.

"Sounds like a plan." the Kree replies with a lazy smile.  
He still hasn't replaced his jacket and Peter has a hard time trying not to ogle him. He has always been attractive, but the fact that he is now sporting his marks makes him almost irresistible.  
"Ever been there before?" Peter asks.  
The Kree shakes his head. "I was a bit too tied up with the war and my duties to travel around the Galaxy for leisure." he explains.  
"Oh, well, I suppose you had places to be, heads to smash..." Peter teases.  
Ronan laughs hearthily. "Exactly. - he agrees - But it's never too late to see new places and try new things. Without you, I would have never had the chance." he adds, turning to look at him.

"You mean if we hadn't fucked up your life?" Peter asks, feeling a twinge of guilt, he doesn't even know why.  
If they had not, they would never be having this conversation, but since they have, and Ronan is their honour-bound _haaq_ , Peter might never know for sure if whatever the Kree feels for him and Gamora is real and not just Centaurian syndrome or some sort of twisted sense of duty.

"My life was in turmoil long before you entered the scene. - Ronan replies calmly - I rather think you helped me fix it. I am more balanced now than I ever was before." he adds.  
"But you are not free." Peter counters.  
"Am I not? - the Kree retorts, quirking a hairless eyebrow - Then I have never been. All my life I obeyed someone else's orders. You must have realised that I don't exactly mind..." he adds, giving him a sidelong glance.  
"Is that innuendo?" Peter asks himself. He likes the idea that it might be.

"Yeah, right... - he says, rubbing the back of his neck to hide his embarrassment - About that... I am sorry if I overstepped the boundaries a bit at the Silk Den." he adds.  
Ronan gives him one of his trademark impenetrable looks.  
"I mean, we had not agreed anything about kisses, and, who knows, maybe you didn't like it... Maybe you are not even into guys, I mean, maybe you are not gay at all." Peter finds himself babbling, just to fill the silence.

"To be honest, I never put any real thought into the matter. - Ronan says, stopping him in his tracks - I wasn't popular with my classmates at the Academy." he adds as if explains everything.  
"And I wasn't really interested in any relationship at the time." he continues, a bit ruefully, after a brief pause.  
"Too busy acing those pesky tests?" Peter teases.  
A smile appears on the Kree's face. "And then too busy working. - he confirms - And at that point it was too late for dallying with men anyway. I was supposed to marry as soon as possible after graduating." he explains.  
"But you didn't, did you?" Peter asks, suddenly nervous and almost jealous.  
"No I didn't. - Ronan says, shaking his head - I vowed not to marry until the end of the war. I didn't want to leave a widow and orphans behind when I died."  
"When?!" Peter repeats.  
"I never thought I was going to see the end of it. I am not even sure I would have wanted to. - Ronan reveals - The beginning and the end of my life _was_ the war, back then. I told you, I was already 'fucked up' long before we met." he adds with a wry smile, seeing the shocked expression on the Terran's face.

"So, I get it, you passed up marriage, because you thought that you were a goner anyway, but you must have had at least a girlfriend... or a lover, or a one-night-stand..." he offers, feeling slightly panicky.  
Ronan shakes his head.  
"Not really. I had never... I had never felt any physical desire for anyone. - he confesses, blushing dark blue - I thought I was... defective, in that respect. And I mean biologically."  
Peter's mind starts spinning horribly and his face freezes in what he hopes is a warm smile but feels more like a rictus.  
Ronan is not just confused and inhibited about sex, he is a bloody virgin and he has just forced him into what amounts to public sex in front of a crowd of strangers in a club!  
This is... this is insane and wrong, and... gods! How wrong is it that, now that he knows, Peter wants him even more?

"I have only recently realised that the problem was not... _down there_ , but here, and here..." Ronan continues, oblivious to the Terran's minor crisis, pointing at his head and at his heart.  
Peter makes all the appropriate noises, but he is barely listening. He feels guilty about forcing him in such a situation, and even more guilty for having assumed things about him, instead of talking with him about them like an adult.

"I was hiding behind my duty and the traditions of my people to get away with repressing my feelings. - Ronan confesses - I thought that having feelings was weak and childish, but the truth is that I was afraid. You Guardians taught me that I don't need to fear, that I can both be a warrior on the path of Pama and care for people, and now... well, the problem has fixed itself, it seems..." he adds, blushing even darker.  
"And how!" Peter thinks, dreamily recalling how those bloody rock-star trousers were doing basically nothing to conceal the Kree's impressive hard-on, and how he had happily ground himself on it as they kissed.

"Had you ever kissed anyone before tonight?" Star-Lord asks, keeping his gaze in the distance.  
"No. That was... that was my first time." Ronan replies shyly.  
It is the answer Peter dreaded.  
"I am sorry..." he says quietly.  
"Eh!? Why?" Ronan asks. Peter is still looking away, but he can clearly imagine a perplexed expression on his face. He is cute when he is confused.  
"Because that was not how it is supposed to be." Peter retorts, shaking his head.  
"And how it is supposed to be, then?" the Kree insists, quite belligerent.  
"I... I don't know! - Peter exclaims, feeling the weight of his gaze on him - Romantic, maybe? At least with a person of the gender you prefer? And maybe not forced by the circumstances of a mission?" he adds with growing irritation towards himself.  
"I wasn't complaining..." Ronan points out.  
Peter lets out a strangled growl. He doesn't know what to say. He wants to believe that Ronan liked it as much as he did, that he was totally into it and his consent was freely given, but he is not sure. He is very, very afraid of having exploited the Kree's submissive streak and sudden bout of delayed puberty, and having stolen something important from him.

"I shouldn't have brought you with me." Peter says.  
"Excuse me?! But the mission was a success!" Ronan protests.  
"That is not the point! - Peter retorts - And the fact that you don't see it is another proof that I shouldn't have gotten you into that situation." he adds more calmly.  
"I did consent, if that's what you are worried about." Ronan declares firmly. He looks slightly angry and that is something Peter would have never wanted.  
"I might be inexperienced, but I am not ignorant. I knew what we were potentially getting ourselves into, and I _told_ you I was fine with it. - he continues - You must have realised that I didn't bloody mind what happened in there!"  
"You consented because it was a mission." Peter accuses, even as a shiver runs through him at the memory of how sexy and happy and utterly gone he had looked. He wants Ronan to want him as much as he wants him, he wants everything from him, friendship, sex, love, but he won't take anything until he is certain that it is mutual and freely given.  
"What if I told you I wanted to bang you just because? Would it be the same for you?" he questions sharply. Ronan pauses and blinks, most of his confidence gone.  
"Or better, would you ask me for sex? Would you initiate it?" Peter insists.  
The Kree hesitates, opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again without a sound.

"Thought so." Peter comments ruefully. Better to know, even if it breaks his heart. He stands up and drops from the top of the ship to the ground of the parking lot. He needs to sleep, and maybe a stiff, strong drink.  
"Wait, no! - Ronan pleads, standing up in turn - I... I can explain!"  
"I don't need explanations." Peter retorts. Not now. Maybe when it stops hurting so much, like in a thousand years.

The hatch of the Milano opens, spitting out a groggy, confused Drax.  
"Well met, comrades! - he greets, blinking in the light - I gather that your mission was successful." he comments cheerfully.  
"Yeah, we have a lead." Peter replies, glad for the distraction.  
"Capital! - Drax exclaims - We have run out of stimulating morning drinks, I am going to buy some, for the rest, we should be ready to depart." he adds.  
"Yeah, sure. - Peter says - This ship runs on coffee. Good call!"

"Peter?! Ronan?! You're back!" Gamora shouts from inside the ship. She must have heard him talking with Drax through the open hatch.  
"Yep! Safe and sound!" he shouts back, feigning cheerfulness.  
"Come in, quick! Nebula has made contact! There are news about Terra!" she yells.  
"An even bigger distraction, great!" Peter thinks.  
"Coming! - he yells, then turns to Drax - Be quick, alright?" he instructs.  
The Destroyer nods and runs off.  
"Coming, bluebell?" Peter asks, looking up at Ronan. The Kree leaps from the top of the ship and closes in on him.  
"This conversation is not over." he threatens, stepping through the hatch.

Thankfully, it is instead.  
Nebula's message says that another Infinity Stone has cropped up on Terra, and nearly appropriated by some crazy dudes called Svartalfar. Apparently, they were repelled by the same weird coalition of Asgardians and Terrans of whom Gamora had spoken earlier, and now the Stone is in Terran hands.

"Between Terra and Asgard, they have two of the six stones. Another one is on Xandar. - Nebula argues in the recorded message - That we know, Thanos only has one, the Mind Stone. An alliance could achieve much, under the present circumstances." she concludes.  
The Guardians can't help but agree.  
The message continues after that, and Nebula claims to have solid links into the Asgardian palace. She closes off by asking for a parlay between them, her and the Asgardian representative.  
"I still hate you, little sister... - the assassin says, addressing Gamora directly - But I hate Thanos more, and stopping him is more important to me than anything else, so, please, reply to me. Let me know where we can meet and talk." she adds, just before the video recording stops.

"I don't like the crazy blue bitch, but she has a point." Rocket says, summing up the feelings of all the others, apart maybe from Gamora and Ronan.  
Peter scans all the others with his gaze. They all nod.  
"And what if it is a trap?" he objects, just for the sake of caution.  
"Then we deal with my sister once and for all." Gamora declares, unsheathing one of her knives.

After a brief debate, they decide to go to Spartax anyway, because if they are going to go to war against Thanos, it is better that they cover their backs first by dealing with whoever is trying to capture Peter.  
They send a reply to Nebula, telling her that they will meet in Spartax in two standard galactic weeks, then start the preparations for take off. Peter is not usually one to make things by the book, but this time he doesn't leave out a single safety check.  
He wants to keep busy. He doesn't want to think.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> This chapter will finally show a bit of Gamora's PoV, and confuse things even further.
> 
> Warnings: more of Peter's confused boner, while Gamora is not confused at all. Non-graphic M/F/M threesome Peter/Gamora/OMC.  
> Don't kill me, we are getting closer and closer to the target, but I had to throw in some extra angst. Just bear with me a little bit more, alright?

As soon as Peter and Ronan are back from their mission, Gamora immediately realises that there is something wrong. There is an extra weight to their gazes, an extra tension in their words. She would like to talk to them, but Peter buries himself in preparations, avoiding her, and Ronan does the same.

That night, after they land on Spartax Prime, Peter crawls in their bed, totally wiped out by exhaustion and tension.  
Gamora holds him tight, waiting for him to feel comfortable and calm enough to tell her what's wrong.

"I want him, Gamora..." he whispers after a while. There is no need for him to clarify who is it that Peter wants. This is a discussion they have been having on and off for nearly a year, ever since they had their tearful "group therapy session". Gamora shares his desire, and often they have fantasized of dragging Ronan into their bed and taking turns in driving him mad with pleasure. So far, they have been biding their time, waiting for a sign. Maybe things are finally coming to a head, she thinks.

"I love him... You know." Peter continues, hugging her even closer. There is desperation in his words, even if she doesn't understand why.  
Gamora starts petting his hair. It always relaxes him.  
"I know, of course I know. - she whispers - And you know I love him too." she adds.

Back when they had lived together on the Dark Aster, she had not allowed herself to feel anything for Thanos' proud and solemn newest plaything, but she loved the loyal, gentle and hopelessly awkward person that she had discovered him to be from the bottom of her heart.

Among her people, before they were almost completely wiped out by Thanos, each woman used to marry two men, choosing them to balance each other out. A marriage in which the two men also loved each other used to be considered a perfect marriage.  
She doesn't remember her mother and her two fathers much, just glimpses here and there, but she remembers they were happy, and in love, and that they loved her. For her, that is the paradigm of happiness, stability and comfort, and since she had started to be able to feel again, she has wanted something like this for herself.  
The gods were kind to her, after so much misfortune, they have put on her path two wonderful men, and she loves them both, for different reasons, but with the same intensity. She is sure they could be happy together, if only she could get the two of them to talk to each other, or Ronan to talk to anyone before getting to the breaking point.

"I nearly had him, last night... - Peter continues, whispering close to her ear - Oh, gods, Gamora... I wish you could have seen him! He was... amazing. I never wanted any man as much as I want him..." he confesses.  
He tells her of their ploy to get an audience with We'al of having Ronan tied up and blindfolded at his mercy, of marking him, and of how he whimpered and cried out for him, of how his hardness pressed against Peter's leg as the Terran kissed him...

Gamora feels herself getting wet and ready just by hearing about it.  
"So finally you two have managed to sort it out..." she whispers heatedly, kissing him hard.  
"I... no, Gamora, I don't think so..." he replies, breaking the kiss and hiding his face against her neck.  
"What went wrong?" she asks, puzzled. What he told her seems like a wonderful resolution to their problem.  
"He is... he is a bloody virgin, Gamora! - Peter explodes, blushing an adorable shade of crimson - He had never even been kissed before yesterday night!"  
At those words, something inside her does a victory dance. It is even better than what she had imagined. She would want nothing better than to be Ronan's first, to watch him discover they joys of sex with them...

"I fail to see how this might be a problem, Peter... It seems like a boon to me..." she whispers.  
"It is a problem if he doesn't know what he wants and feels like it is a duty for him to go ahead with whatever we ask of him." he retorts somberly.  
"Do you really think it is so?" she asks.  
"I... I don't know. - he says, sounding lost and burrowing even harder against her - I was upset by what he had told me, so I asked him if he would take the initiative with me..." he recounts.  
"And...?" Gamora asks gently, masking her own unease.  
"And he didn't say anything... but he looked panicky. - he reveals - Either he is not ready for this yet, or he doesn't want it." he concludes dejectedly.  
"Or maybe he was just confused into speechlessness, like he is sometimes. Come on Peter, you know how he is... - she tries to comfort him - You know that sometimes when things are too far out of his comfort zone he just... well he goes all silent and broody, until he has come to terms with it."  
Peter raises his head for a moment, looking a little bit hopeful under all the doom and gloom.  
"I know, but..." he starts to protest, but Gamora silences him with a kiss.  
"And did you think that maybe he misunderstood you and thought you were asking him to dom you?" she asks, after they surface for air.  
Peter does not reply, but she knows that he is thinking about her point.

"Maybe he wouldn't want _that_ , maybe he doesn't like to lead in bed... - she wonders - Maybe what he wants is for us to dom him, but doesn't quite know it himself yet..." she adds and she feels him shiver in delight at the thought.  
"Give him time, Peter... let him think about your moment together..." she exhorts him.

"I have, Gamora! Gods, we both have! - he nearly sobs - But now, after yesterday... I just can't stop thinking about him and all the things I want us to do together... and I don't want to pressure him, I want to wait for him, but... gods, I don't know how I'll manage..." he confesses.  
Gamora shushes him gently, petting him to help him calm down.  
"It's been long since we had a man in our bed. - she says - Maybe we should pick up someone on Spartax. Just to ease the pressure, you know... just to help us wait." she proposes.

Peter does not reply, but the following day, when they disperse to explore the capital of Spartax Prime, he drags her away from the rest and into a fancy club.  
They pick up a tall Spartoi guy, dark-haired and tanned, and bring him back to the Milano. It is quite easy to convince him, Spartoi culture doesn't frown on homosexuality, and the Spartoi seem to have a taste for the exotic.

The guy is tall and powerful enough that if she closes her eyes, and keeps her hands resolutely away from his hair, she can imagine that the man who is thrusting into her as Peter takes him from behind is Ronan.  
Still, it is purely physical, and it feels hollow, mechanical. It might sate the need gnawing at them, at least for a while, but it does nothing for the ache in her heart.  
Only the real thing can cure that.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains more of Ronan's confused boner, some mild speciesism and sexism as well as angst, mild violence and voyeurism.
> 
> The inhabitants of Spartax are called Spartoi in the comics, which is reason enough for me to make them channel a whole lot of ancient Greece in their language and behaviour.
> 
> Helot(s) means slave(s) or servant(s) and barbaroi means barbarians.
> 
> Also, the Shi'ar are another extra-terrestrial race from the Marvel comics. Some of them are avian-esque humanoids, others look a lot like humans. I am going with the avian-esque theme and giving them all feathers in place of hair.  
> Gladiator is a real Shi'ar character from the comics, which I am re-casting for the benefit of the story. This is an AU, after all.
> 
> Enjoy, and don't kill me, please.

During their trip to Spartax Prime and the following night, Ronan thinks long and hard about his perplexing talk with Star-Lord.  
He had thought that the Terran had finally realised that he wanted him, and he even tried to _tell_ him, in a way, even if it was already a bit like stepping into whore territory already.  
But no, suddenly Star-Lord is all worried and put off by the fact that he is inexperienced in bed! That has to be one of the most frustrating things he has ever experienced!  
What is the problem with him?! Isn't he happy that he can have him first, stake his claim over him unequivocally, and so on?!  
It makes him nearly want to go to the first bar he can find on Spartax and lay with any man who fancies him.

That rebellious plan doesn't survive five minutes after he has conceived it, though.  
What he is after, isn't just carnal pleasure. He wants what he has briefly had at the Silk Den, to give himself up to the person he loves and trusts. He wants Star-Lord and Gamora, yes, them both, to make him theirs.

That night, he even dreams about it. The dream is vague, and confused, and as soon as he wakes up he can barely remember it already, but he is hard as a rock, and can't stop thinking about both his masters.  
He won't be able to resist without giving himself away. Hell, he has already given himself away enough in that wretched club, but it has not made things better.  
Curse the lack of perceptiveness of Gamora and Star-Lord! Does he have to tell them everything in gory detail for them to understand that he _is_ willing?

Maybe he does, he thinks later, over breakfast.  
Maybe on Terra, or wherever Gamora comes from, everyone is much more proactive about their sexual preferences and choices of partners. Maybe his reticence, which would have been taken as a sign of honesty and modesty by his own people, comes across as unwillingness or outright rejection to those two.

The thought rocks him a bit, but it kind of makes sense, especially in the light of some of the things Star-Lord has said during their discussion.  
He seemed to be very keen on freedom of choice and consent, so maybe for him it is not enough that he goes along with what he suggests or orders.

Maybe they need him to be more clear, and openly assert his willingness and availability.  
Ronan is not sure it he is comfortable with that. Kree people are not very forward about sex, and _haaq_ are not supposed to be forward at all, but something has to be done if they want to get out of that impasse, and it seems that he will have to do it.

It even seems right, after he thinks a bit about it.  
He _wants_ it, and being all underhanded in the hope that they will realise it, and force him into a situation where they can give him what he wants seems a lot more dishonest than just telling them straight away.

So far he has been trying to push the choice and the responsibility on them, and it is not fair, especially if anything less than explicit consent turns sex into abuse or even rape in their cultures.  
He doesn't want that, he thinks with a shiver. He has ended up dealing with some rapists in his career as an Accuser (mostly with a swift and sure blow of his hammer to their heads), and he knows that Star-Lord and Gamora are nothing like them. He doesn't want to put them in a position in which they end up feeling that they are like those cruel perverts.

They want him to choose freely, make a statement, and transgress all the unspoken rules of being a _haaq_? Alright, he thinks with new-found determination.  
His people have struck him from the rolls, he doesn't exist for them anymore. None of them has the right to judge him any longer. He doesn't owe them anything.  
To Star-Lord and Gamora instead (and to the rest of the Guardians in truth), he owes everything, his peace, his happiness, his very life.  
If staying with them requires severing the last link with the traditions that imprisoned him in his old life, so be it. He will make them a gift of his complete, unconditional surrender.

It has taken him more than a year to figure that out, but now that he has, he cannot wait to actually put that idea into practice. He forces himself to bide his time, though.  
He would like to have some privacy when he tells them, because hopefully things will progress quite fast from there, if he has any say in it, and surely he doesn't want any of the other Guardians to see or overhear anything, especially Groot. He is still technically a child, even if the others often forget.  
No, he has to manage to get the two of them alone on the ship, while the others are somewhere else.

Star-Lord almost immediately gives him the perfect opportunity to enact his plan.  
"Alright, buddies! - he exclaims - I suggest we go out and explore this place. Just be careful, we don't know yet who our enemies are." he advises.  
"Yes, stay alert and avoid dodgy situations." Gamora asks.  
"No worries, mom. - Rocket teases - This will take care of all the bad guys!" he declares, petting his massive gun.  
"And try not to get arrested on our first day here!" Star-Lord adds, rolling his eyes.  
"Spoilsport..." Rocket mumbles.  
He and Groot leave on their own, saying something about some landmark or other they want to visit.

Ronan dons his most threadbare and unassuming clothes and leaves his _labyrs_ on the Milano. Servants are often considered unimportant and people feel more free to speak in their presence.  
He'll act the part and mingle with the crowds, hopefully that will gain him some intelligence on their quarry.

He sets out on his own, just as Star-Lord and Gamora are leaving together, and heads towards the main market of the city.  
The crowd is packed among the stall displaying wares from all over the quadrant and beyond.  
Shi'ar Space borders with the Kree Empire on the far side, and somehow a couple of Kree merchants have found their way to Spartax. Ronan steers well clear of their stall, no matter how enticing the smell of tea and spices might be. He doesn't want to rin the risk of being recognised.

He concentrates on his supply run and stops at a stall manned by a Spartoi servant, what they call an _helot_. The man, who bears a very passing resemblance to Star-Lord with his tousled, light-brown hair, is pleased by his custom and quite chatty.  
"Did you get taken in for debt, or do you have a fixed-term indenture?" he asks.  
Ronan looks at him in puzzlement for a moment. Slavery on a contract? That is a queer legal practice.  
"I have been taken captive in battle." he replies.  
"Oh, wow! You are a warrior then!" the Spartoi exclaims.  
"I was." Ronan clarifies. There is no need for the man to know the unusual arrangement he has with his masters.  
"And when is your release date?" the man continues.  
"Well, never." Ronan retorts nonchalantly.

The man's eyes go very wide and his jaw slackens in utter astonishment.  
"Oh, man! This must suck so much!" he condoles.  
"No, not really. - Ronan retorts - My masters treat me better than well."  
The man eyes him suspiciously, trying to figure out if he has told him the truth.  
"You know you can appeal to the Temple of the Twin Gods, right? - he advises - They are sworn to protect _helots_ who have been mistreated by their masters. Sometimes _barbaroi_ aliens do appalling things to their _helots_..." he explains.  
"Thank you for your concern, sir, but I am perfectly fine with my arrangement with my masters." he retorts stiffly.

The Guardians are not barbarians. They are good people, and it angers him to think that strangers might look down on them just for their motley origin and rough looks.

And he is doing it again, he realises. He is thinking and feeling things that couldn't be more different from what he thought and felt before his fall, but that somehow sound more in accord with the spirit of Pama's teachings. She teaches that one should judge all people, from their actions and not their looks or circumstances, but somehow, until not long before, he has always taken it as meaning only Kree people or subjects of the Empire.  
Now he is quite sure that that isn't how it was meant to be. Pama is a great goddess, and her message is supposed to be universal, embracing all the Galaxy and beyond. Everyone should be treated fairly, with justice and mercy.

Absorbed in his musings, he pays the concerned merchant and wanders aimlessly around the market, until he ends up in a big plaza, where what looks like a debate is being held.  
On a ring of benches sit Spartoi men of substance and power, and a few women, clothed in flowing tunics and cloaks in all the colours of the spectrum. The discussion is quite animated, but takes place in Spartoi, of which he has only a superficial knowledge, enough to know that they are talking about a marriage and about the Emperor, but no more than that.

Ronan sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, unwilling to risk being a victim of pickpockets since he cannot benefit from listening more closely to the debate.  
A few young men have climbed on the plinth of a nearby statue to have a better view of the proceedings. Ronan follows their lead and joins them on their precarious perch.

"Well met, blue man of Kree! - one of the boys greets in Trader's Tongue - The Assembly is a thing of wonder, isn't it? " he asks.  
Ronan acquiesces. "It is very impressive. - he agrees truthfully - What are they debating about?" he asks.  
"The marriage between princess Helenai and the Shi'ar prince Gladiator." the young Spartoi explains. His curls are black as jet and his skin dusky, a bit like the woman We'al described.

"The marriage that will end the war, or so they have told me." Ronan says.  
"And that will firmly put Helenai on her father's throne." the youth adds.  
"Not everyone is happy about it." another one of the company, a red-haired lad, explains.  
"And why? - Ronan asks, shifting on his precarious perch to have a better hold - Would she be a bad queen?" he asks.  
"Emperess, blue man. She'd be the Emperess of Spartax. - the first youth explains - She'd be the first woman on the throne. Emperor J'son has had fourteen daughters from his wives, but no sons." he adds.  
"Well, I am sure the Emperor will have prepared her for her task for years already." Ronan says.  
"Oh yes, she has the mind and the courage of a man... - the red-haired youth retorts - but still the soft heart of a woman, and she is very much in love with the Shi'ar prince..." he declares with displeasure.  
"The Shi'ar will end up having the upper hand in the deal." a third boy adds.  
"Yeah, and that feathered bastard will be ruling us to his pleasure." Red-hair concludes.  
"I gather that there are no alternative candidates to the throne." Ronan interjects, not entirely comfortable with the tone of some of the boys' remarks.  
Dark-skin shrugs. "There is a younger brother of Emperor J'son, but he was injured in battle. It knocked a few of his screws loose, if you know what I mean." he replies.  
"Yeah, he is totally unfit to care for himself. Princess Vesta of Shi'ar probably would rather jump off a cliff than marry him." another voice adds.

A woman takes center stage in the Assembly. Ronan momentarily switches off from the side-debate happening on the plynth between supporters and detractors of the princess.  
The Spartoi noblewoman is tall and strong, dressed in a short white tunic and a cloak of carmine red, a sword at her belt and brass bracers around her wrists. She is a warrior and a leader, it is plain to see.  
Her skin is dark and smooth, like polished ebony, and her dark curls are held by a circlet of gold around her brow. From where he is standing, he cannot quite see her eyes, but he would bet they are blue, and when she starts speaking, her voice is clear and sharp, but somehow still sweet... a bit like the smell of gardenias, as We'al had said.

"Hey, men of Spartax, who is that woman?" he asks, butting in their conversation.  
"That is her. - Dark-skin replies with a smile - Helenai of Spartax. Isn't she beautiful?" he adds.  
Ronan makes a noncommittal noise, trying to absorb the information.  
That is the princess and future Emperess of Spartax, and she is the one who arranged things to capture Star-Lord. This has the potential to become a big problem.

"And she in one of Spartax's finest warriors. - Dark-skin continues - They say she duelled prince Gladiator of Shi'ar to a standstill on the battlefields of Mekara. Only the fall of night could end their dance of death. They say that Gladiator fell immediately in love with his fierce foe." he adds, as if he is reciting a poem. Maybe he is. From his days in the Academy he remembers something about the supposed passion of Spartoi people for sagas of heroic deeds. Maybe it is actually true.  
"What is certain is that a few days after that duel, the Shi'ar proposed a dynastic union." the Spartoi continues.  
"Yeah, well, Gladiator is the spare. He has no right to the throne unless prince Praetor kicks the bucket before his wife sprogs." Red-hair chimes in.

This sparks another violent debate, but Ronan switches it off and, saying farewell to his improvised companions, jumps off the plynth and picks his way through the crowds back towards the Milano.  
The Guardians need to know as soon as possible about this piece of information.

And then he needs to stash the food into the preserver before it rots in the heat and have a shower. He is still dead set on his plan for Star-Lord and Gamora and he wants to look and smell his best for them.  
There is quite a bit of time before sundown, but he does not care. He'll bide his time a bit, maybe cook something in advance, then comm his quarry and set the trap, he tells himself as he enters the ship.

As soon as he is in, however, he realises that there is something not quite right in the Milano.  
Something is off, even if he cannot quite put his finger on what. It might be a noise at the edge of his perception, or a smell he cannot quite identify. Whatever it is, it is setting him on edge.

He stashes the perishable goods pell-mell into the preserver, and then he hears it.  
A subtle noise, some sort of gasp, or a low, suffocated cry. It is coming from one of the rooms.  
The Guardians might be in danger.

There is no time for him to get into the holding cell and retrieve his _labyrs_ , apart from the fact that it is too big to wield inside the ship. He grabs one of the kitchen knives, a big, heavy thing, and quietly slips down the corridor.  
The noise is coming from Star-Lord and Gamora's room.  
The door is slightly ajar, and he peers in cautiously, starting to formulate a loose rescue plan.

And then he sees and it is clear that a rescue is not just unnecessary, but undesirable.  
Star-Lord and Gamora are naked in bed with a stranger, a Spartoi warrior by the looks of it, with a golden tan and flowing ebony locks. He is admittedly handsome, but he is nothing compared with his masters.  
Gamora is lying on her back, her long legs wrapped around the stranger's waist, her back arched and her face flushed in pleasure as he slides in and out of her.  
Star-Lord is kneeling behind the man, thrusting into him as he thrusts into Gamora, and his curls are all tousled and sweaty and he looks as beautiful as the stars.

He wants that, Ronan realises in a bittersweet flash of epiphany. He wants to be that man, caught in the middle of so much beauty. He wants to be the one to give them both pleasure.  
It should be him.

It would have been him, if he hadn't been so slow to accept his feelings, if he had not waited so long.  
He had made them wait too long and now they had found someone else, someone more confident and experienced, probably, someone whom they don't have to teach, someone whom they don't have to protect.  
He cannot really blame them. He knows that he is not actually worth waiting for, especially not for so long, but the realisation pains him, fills him with sorrow and anger.  
He drops the knife on the floor without even realising and turns his back on that scene, running out of the Milano and back into the city.

His heart feels full and heavy, ready to burst and his thoughts run in circles around the bliss he has glimpsed but will never have for himself.  
How can he go back to the Milano, after what he has seen?  
How can he look those two in the face, knowing that his longing for them has only grown, but that they don't want him anymore?  
He doesn't want to think about it. He wants to stop thinking at all, to exhaust himself into oblivion.

In his quest to avoid the crowds, Ronan ends up in one of the unsavoury districts bordering the city centre. The streets are lined with watering holes, disreputable houses and dodgy establishments of other sorts.

A placard stuck to the front of one of them attracts his attention. It is written in Trader's Tongue as well as in Spartoi and advertises a prize-fighting tournament, open to everyone.  
Ronan changes his course and enters the place.  
It reeks of old beer and sweat, with an aftertaste of blood and puke. A ten-feet-deep pit is in the center of the main room, and the crowd is gathered around it, cheering and shouting.  
He peers over the heads of the crowd. Two Spartoi men, bare from the waist up, are having at each other with fists and feet, and it seems that no holds are barred.  
Perfect. That is exactly what he needs to relieve the pain of his discovery.

Ronan quickly locates one of the managers. The man is sitting at a counter and counting a stack of credits.  
"Is it still possible to enter the tournament?" Ronan asks.  
"Of course it is, stranger. As long as you pay the entrance fee." the Spartoi replies.  
"How much?" he retorts.  
"Fifty. It's for the insurance and logistic expenses." he explains.

Ronan digs in his pockets. He still has some of the money the Guardians had given him for the supply run. He pays up, feeling slightly bad, but he _needs_ this to stay sane.  
He is left with a little more than two credits. He will make good of his debt in time.

"Can you read?" the Spartoi asks.  
Ronan acquiesces.  
"Then read and sign this. - he instructs, shoving a form under his nose - It is a legal waiver for all and any damage you might incur during the tournament." he explains.  
The Kree quickly reads through the form and signs his name at the bottom in High Kree formal script, which is mostly unknown and incomprehensible to non-Kree.  
The man eyes the form critically but doesn't comment.  
"So what is your name, fellow?" he asks.  
"Coehl." Ronan replies.  
"Right, Coehl, you are next. - the man announces - Good luck!"

Within five minutes, or little more, of his arrival, Ronan finds him standing on the sand-covered floor of the pit. Before him, stands a purple-skinned Shi'ar man, his feathered crest perked up in excitement.  
Shi'ar and Kree have fought many wars in the past, but he has never had the honour of breaking a feather-head's face himself before.  
It seems that today is his day, he thinks, then the referee gives the sign and the Shi'ar advances confidently, throwing punches and kicks and Ronan has to stop thinking.  
Just as he wanted.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, what you must have been waiting for since a few chapters ago! Explicit scenes ahead!
> 
> You're welcome!
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains some angst, some mild violence and, finally, some sex (M/F).
> 
> For those of you who were expecting a "sandwich", sorry, you'll have to wait a bit more, but it's quite hard to write a threesome without leaving any of the characters hanging - but I am writing it, promise.  
> And if it is any consolation, there will be more M-rated stuff in the next chapter next week.
> 
> Enjoy, and please don't shout at me!

They kick Yo-laus out of their bed around four. There are at least two more hours before sundown, but they want to clean up and erase all the evidence well before the others arrive. They needed the relief, but that doesn't mean they don't feel guilty about it.  
Yo-laus takes it remarkably well, at least.

"It was good fun, - he says - but you're going to be gone soon anyway, so..." he shrugs as he picks his tunic up from the floor.  
"Do you mind if I use your shower?" he asks in the end.  
"'Course not, buddy. - Peter replies - It is the first door on the right." he directs.  
Gamora doesn't have the stomach to do idle conversation with the man, and decides to curl up on the bed. It smells slightly like the Spartoi. They will have to change the bedsheets, and she is going to wash them herself. It would be just plain wrong to make Ronan wash them.

"Hey fellows, why is there a knife on the floor in the corridor?" Yo-laus asks, sticking his head back in.  
"A what!?" Peter asks.  
Gamora is overtaken by a bad feeling and jumps out of bed, naked as she is.

There is indeed a knife on the floor, and it comes from their kitchen.  
A combat dagger would have meant Drax, a penknife Rocket, but this...  
She steps into the kitchen. There is a bag of supplies abandoned on the floor.  
"Oh, no!" she wails, burying her hands in her hair.  
"Hey, Gamora, what...?!" Peter asks, then he sees it too, and curses.  
"He was here... - he exhales, leaning on a cupboard for support - Do you think he has...?" he starts.  
Gamora wishes it wasn't the case, but she suspects it is. She nods.  
Ronan must have seen them, and by the looks of it, he has not taken it well. Guilt, despair and hope mix in her heart: Ronan must feel something for them for him to be upset at seeing them in bed with someone else. There can be no heartbreak, if there is no love.

Peter curses again, hitting the cupboard with his fist.  
"What do we do now? - he asks, sounding lost and desolate - Gods, it's all my fault!" he whispers.  
Yo-laus sticks his head in from the door.  
"Is it alright, fellows? What has happened?" he asks with what looks like sincere concern.  
Oh, nothing, she thinks sarcastically, we have just messed up and big time with the person we love. And all because we couldn't talk. Again.

"Listen, Yo-laus, it would be better if you just left now. - she says instead - And I mean _now_. We have a bit of a problem to solve." she adds.  
The Spartoi gives her a doubtful look, but acquiesces.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he apologises.  
"Don't, it's not your fault. - she says, stopping him into his tracks - You are a nice man. I regret having to kick you out like this..." she adds.  
"Ah, don't worry. - he minimises - I'll have my stride of pride. It's not a problem. It was nice to know you. And you too, Peter Quill." he adds, turning towards Peter, who is hastily getting dressed.

"What are you doing?" Gamora asks Peter as soon as Yo-laus gets out of the ship.  
"I'm going to look for him and bring him back." he replies, fumbling with his boots.  
"No, you are not." she retorts. His eyes go very wide in perplexity, but she decides to ignore it.  
"I know how to deal with him when his is angry, you don't. Your heart is big and in the right place, but you are rash. You might blurt out the wrong thing.- she continues - I will go. You will stay here in case he comes back on his own." she instructs.  
Peter seems on the verge of protesting, but he immediately closes his mouth and lowers his head.  
"You are right. - he says - I am so upset about this... I don't know how to feel. I want to fix this so badly that I... I might mess it up worse." he admits, and she thinks she sees tears in his eyes.  
"I'll bring him back, I promise." she reassures him, hugging him close.  
She hopes she can. She really does. It would be cruel to lose him now.

Five minutes later, she is dressed and armed, and walking down the streets with purpose and determination.  
While she was getting ready, Peter has called the rest of the team on their comms, but no one has seen Ronan. The stubborn Kree himself is not picking his comm up, obviously. She will have to canvass the streets from first principles. Good thing she is a trained hunter.

Gamora's search strategy is simple. In a similar situation, the responses of a scorned lover fall into a limited set of categories. They can go on a homicidal rampage against the unfaithful loved ones, which luckily wasn't the case, they can remain on location and start shouting and making a scene, a scenario which was also not verified, or they can run away in search of a means to cope with the rejection.

Ronan's response falls clearly in this last case.  
He could be in a pub, going through a bender, or in a brothel, repaying infidelity with infidelity, but neither option seems likely. Ronan doesn't drink, he doesn't even like the taste of alcohol, and, most likely, he is too shy and insecure to approach a sex worker.  
This leaves one main option, and it is the one that is most in agreement with what she knows of his reactions to distress. He has gone to look for a fight, to find respite from his pain in the immediacy of battle.

Now that it is getting late in the afternoon and the market is shutting down for the evening, the streets are getting empty, but when Ronan was fleeing, at least a couple of hours before, it was still in full swing, and the streets in the center of the city were packed.  
She doubts that he would have wanted to be in the middle of the jostling and clamoring, so she takes a street leading towards the periphery.  
He would not have had the clarity of mind to pick an elaborate path, so she continues straight on the main street, until she gets to a run-down, slightly unsavory neighborhood. This is the right place to look for a fight.  
She keeps an eye on the cantinas and bars, looking for signs of recent disturbances, and keeps an ear out for conversations.  
She doesn't have translator implants like Peter, but she knows a bit of Spartoi, and when she overhears two men talking about a "mean blue bastard" who was destroying the opposition in a fighting contest, she immediately accosts them and asks for directions, feigning an interest in betting.

The two men direct her towards a big, loud establishment. A quite drunk crowd of fighting aficionados is milling around the place, drinks in hand, and is packed almost solid around the central pit.  
Gamora slides through the crowd and with a mixture of charm and sharp elbows, manages to conquer herself a place in the front row.

Down in the pit, Ronan is fighting against a huge, green-skinned, warrior-caste Skrull. He is shirtless, bathed in sweat, and his skin is mottled with bruises. He must have been at it for a while.  
The Skrull lands a hit, kicking the breath out of Ronan, and the crowd explodes in a shout of approval, but the Kree is not finished yet, and when his opponent dives in for the KO, he manages to grab the leading hand of the Skrull, and in short order, break his elbow, and then a few ribs and finally his beaky nose.  
The Skrull falls in a heap on the sand-covered floor and Ronan slowly climbs the rickety ladder out of the pit and to the main floor. He is favoring one side, and his hands are bloody from the blows.

Gamora slides away and cuts through the crowd as best as she can.  
She intercepts him as he is sitting down at a table in the corner with a big glass of something pinkish and fruity which doesn't look alcoholic at all.  
He looks not just tired, but hollowed out, as he was on the Dark Aster, and it pains her to see him like that once more.

"Ronan..." she calls as she approaches his table.  
He looks up and his eyes widen a bit when he realises it is her, but then his gaze drops again into the depths of his drink.  
Gamora sits down in front of him and tries unsuccessfully to meet his gaze.  
"Ronan I am sorry... It shouldn't have happened... You shouldn't have seen something like that..." she starts.  
"Don't apologise. - he interrupts her - I have no right to question your behaviour. The ship is yours. You and Star-Lord have every right of bringing home whatever lovers you might fancy." he adds.  
His tone is once more flat, distant and hollow. He is trying to make it sound like it hasn't affected him at all, but she knows him too well to fall for that.  
He is hurting badly and deeply.

"Please, come home... - she pleads, trying to lay a hand over his on the table - I... we can explain." she adds softly, but he withdraws his hands, hiding them under the table.  
"I don't want explanations. It is already awkward and painful enough as it is. - he replies, a bit desperate - I understand. It was not about me, it was about having a third. I made you wait too long, and I lost my chance. I... I have no right to blame you." he says, refusing to look her way.  
"And yet you hurt." Gamora says, pressing her hands together on the table to prevent herself from reaching out for him, even though she wants to hold him close until everything is better.  
It is not the time yet. This time they will talk it through and fix it, because she knows... Now she knows that they all want the same thing, that they just need to have the courage to reach out to make things alright.

"Why?" she insists.  
Now Ronan looks up, a flash of anger in his eyes.  
"Why?! - he exclaims - Why, you ask! This is... this is the bloody tragic irony of fate." he curses.  
"Tell me. - Gamora orders - I am serious, Ronan. You will tell me why, and this is an order." she adds firmly.  
The Kree looks at her with something that looks a bit like awe.  
"I think I know the reason, but I am fed up with guessing and second-guessing. We have been at it for too long, you, me and Peter. - she explains - We have been circling around this for a year or more, and look where it has lead us! I want you to tell me the reason of your pain. Why do you hurt for seeing me and Peter with another?" she asks again.

There is a long, long moment of silence. Ronan's gaze locks with her own, searching, looking for a sign, before it drops back to the table.  
"Because I love you... - he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd - I have loved you two for... oh, it feels like forever. And I want you." he reveals.  
Gamora strives to keep calm, even though her heart is bouncing with joy in her chest. She thinks that there will be more revelations.  
"I had just realised that I needed to tell you, and I was going to. - Ronan continues, his voice rough with impending tears - I went back early to wait for you and tell you, because I didn't want to make you wait any longer... and, Pama have mercy on me, I still want you. I want you even more now, even though I know I can't have you." he confesses, burying his face in his hands.

Gamora uses his moment of distraction to shift from her chair to the bench where he is sitting.  
Obviously, he feels the shift in weight and reacts, taking his hands off his face. This is what she was waiting for, and she pounces him, pressing her lips against his gently but firmly.  
Ronan offers a token resistance, probably more out of surprise than anything else, then melts into the kiss, responding clumsily but enthusiastically.  
He tastes like the fruit juice he was drinking, and blood, and the salt of sweat and tears, and his skin is soft and smooth, like silk wrapped over the hardness of his warrior's body. She could kiss him for hours and he doesn't seem like he wants to stop either.  
Gamora slowly shifts on the bench without breaking the kiss. She climbs in his lap until she is straddling him. He is hard down there too, and she can't help but grind herself against him ever so slightly.  
Ronan moans into the kiss, then breaks it for air.

"I love you... - he says quietly, cupping her face into his hands - And I _need_ you... but I won't be used. I don't want this if it is just about... well, _sex_..." he adds, and how cute it is that he cannot even say the _word_ without blushing? It only makes Gamora want to shag him even more.  
"I know I have no right to make demands of you, but I don't want to be just another man you two have a liaison with. - he continues - It means more than that to me. You mean so much more..."  
"It means more than that for us too... - Gamora replies, giving him another peck on the lips - I love you, Ronan, and I know that Peter does too. We have for a long time..." she reveals.  
"Then why...?!" he asks, surprised and slightly angry again.  
He doesn't need to finish the sentence for Gamora to know what he means.

"To stall for time." she says, feeling guilty and immature, and, dammit, if they had just waited a day more, they would have spared everyone so much heartbreak.  
"We have wanted you for so long... But we wanted to wait for you to be ready. We wanted you to want us too. - she reveals - But after K'soth, we... we were going crazy with need..."  
"Why didn't you tell me? - Ronan asks - Why didn't you say anything?"  
Gamora kisses him again and lays her forehead against his.  
"Because you are our _haaq_ , and we have found out how _things_ can go... And we didn't want it to be like _that_. - she says, feeling suddenly shy - We didn't want you to feel like it was your duty. We wanted you to choose freely. To be honest, we didn't quite know how to approach the issue. We rather hoped that you would solve it for us." she confesses.  
"And I hoped that you would solve it for me..." Ronan chimes in, sighing and shaking his head ever so slightly.  
"We ended up using that poor Spartoi as emergency sex relief, and hurting you, all because we couldn't talk... - Gamora comments wryly - I am so sorry... Both of us are..." she whispers.  
"Shhh... don't. - Ronan whispers, holding her close and tentatively petting her hair - I am equally guilty of causing this situation. I should have trusted you and told you months ago." he says.  
"Do you forgive us then?" Gamora asks, leaning back so that she can lock gazes with him. They stay like that for a long moment, silently looking into each other's eyes, then Ronan smiles.  
"Yes, I do. I love you too much to waste more time with heartbreak. I am yours, for as long as you might want me." he declares and kisses her, soft and tentative.  
"And I am yours too." Gamora responds, and suddenly they are back to kissing passionately, devouring each other's lips, and her hands slide all over his exposed skin and he shivers and, gods, she cannot get enough of him, and his hands are on her too, finally, touching, holding, exploring... She grinds herself on him again, tasting the sound of his whimpers, and suddenly someone clears his throat quite loudly next to them.

They both startle and turn, ready to attack or defend themselves. It is only the manager though.  
"Listen up, people, I'm not a prude, but you'd better get a room somewhere, for everyone's sake. - he declares with a wicked grin - I guess you're no longer interested in another match, are you, fellow?" he adds, addressing Ronan.  
"I... I respectfully decline." the Kree says, his cheeks indigo with embarrassment.  
The manager chuckles. "The girlfriend came to pick you up?" he asks, winking.  
Ronan hesitates and looks at her as if asking for permission. Gamora smiles and winks.  
"It would seem so." Ronan declares with a shy smile, and if the manager hadn't been looking at them like a creep, Gamora would have started snogging the breath out of him all over again.

The manager chuckles and places a wad of credits on the table.  
"That's yours, for your victories. - he tells Ronan, continuing to ignore her - It's a bit less than it should be, 'cause after a while they stopped betting against you, but still enough to buy your girl some trinket. Have fun, lover boy!" he salutes, and walks away with a laugh.  
Gamora considers going after him and boxing him in the face for treating her like decoration, but ultimately decides it is not worth the effort.  
"We should get going." she says instead, sliding off Ronan's lap.  
He sighs and stands too, picking up his top and the money.  
"Right, the others will be worried." he comments.

The streets are packed again, when they leave. Eateries and bars are filling up with the early night crowd. It looks like the Spartoi love to party.  
"This is not the way back to the Milano!" Ronan protests after a short while.  
"No, it is not. - she confirms, scanning the street for what she has in mind - By now, Rocket, Drax and Groot will already be back to the ship." she adds, almost as a non-sequitur.  
"Ah, there we go!" she exclaims soon after, having found what looks like the perfect place.  
"A guest house?!" Ronan says, sounding surprised.  
Gamora nods. "What you need now is a shower, some patching up and some _privacy_..." she replies, whispering the last bit in his ear.  
"You don't want Rocket or Groot to overhear, do you?" she continues, and he actually shivers a bit at the implications of her words.  
"And what about Peter?" he asks as a token protest.  
"We'll phone him and tell him to meet us here." she replies, and she can see his resistance crumble.

They pay for a double room with the cash from Ronan's fights.  
If the concierge finds something amiss, she doesn't say anything impolite, at least, and shows them an airy, clean room at the second floor, with a decent-sized bathroom fitted with a shower, and a big, soft-looking, crisply made bed. Gamora and Ronan look at it and then at each other. They know it won't last long in that pristine state.

As soon as the woman leaves, closing the door behind her, Gamora kisses Ronan once more, hard and passionate.  
"Shouldn't we call Peter...?" he asks breathlessly, taking a small break. His hands have found their way under her top, warm and strong and yet so gentle...  
"Should we? - she asks, nibbling at his jaw - But he has had you all for himself for the whole night on K'soth..." she protests, but ultimately acquiesces.  
They phone him, telling him the good news. He is totally over the moon with them, but apparently someone had been trying to kidnap Groot or at least that's what Rocket says, so Rocket is at the police station for excess of self defense, and Peter will have to bail him out. He says he'll be there as soon as he can, but it might be a few hours.

"I suppose we'll have to make do, in the meantime..." Gamora proposes, leaning into Ronan.  
"I suppose you have a contingency plan ready..." he comments with interest.  
Gamora smiles and takes off her top in one fluid motion, standing bare from the waist up.  
The awed expression on the Kree's face is simply priceless.  
"I do, but you can, and should, actually, say no if you are not comfortable with anything, alright?" she instructs.  
Ronan blinks, trying to parse the information in the face of such an obvious distraction, and finally nods.  
"What's the plan?" he asks in a whisper, running his hands along her sides and back, following the lines of her implants.  
"We get our clothes off and have a nice shower together... - she replies, also whispering, and pausing to gasp when he finds a particularly sensitive spot - Then I take care of your injuries, and then of the rest of you..." she concludes, cupping his groin with her hand.  
He hisses in pleasure, and bucks, and in a moment the rest of his clothes are on the floor and he is naked and ready for her, and she cannot help but admire him, because he is undeniably beautiful, all long limbs, lean muscle, and soft, slightly veiny blue skin, tinged with a deeper blue where the blood flows closer to the surface along his proud, erect manhood.  
She cannot help but tease it with feather-light fingers and he nearly crumbles to his knees.  
So sensitive, so responsive...  
She needs to remember that it is his first time.  
She will be gentle. She will show him how good it can be, how good it _will_ be from now on.

Her clothes also hit the floor, and she can feel his gaze roam all over her. He says something in Kree that she doesn't quite understand, but the tone is enough to fill her heart with so much joy that it aches a bit.  
"I love you..." she whispers, and leads him by the hand to the bathroom and then into the shower.

They stand under the warm water, caressing each other gently and lovingly.  
They are naked but there is nothing overtly sexual as she lathers the traces of sweat and blood off his skin, or as he washes her hair, gently massaging her scalp. Their hands roam all over each other, but they are not making love to each other, not exactly. It feels more like a ritual, as if by doing that they are cleansing each other of all guilt and wrongs, in preparation for a new start.  
It feels solemn and important, almost sacred, and that solemnity carries over when they leave the confines of the shower, and go back to the room to dry off, so that when she applies bruise salve on his injuries, it seems as if she is anointing him for some ceremony, and it is fitting somehow, because love should be sacred and together they are celebrating it, and celebrating life.

And then finally Ronan takes the jar of salve out of her hands, puts it onto the bedside table and presses her to the bed.  
He touches and kisses her everywhere he can reach, and Gamora is almost tempted to let him try out whatever he has in mind, but ultimately she wraps her legs around his waist and flips them over, gently forcing him on his back.  
She lays next to him on the bed and kisses him softly as she runs her hand down his body and wraps it around his cock, stroking it over and over.  
Oh, the noises he makes! And how he trembles and twitches under her, whispering praise and encouragement, telling her that he loves her and pleading "Please, more!".  
Gamora feels herself getting wet and ready just by watching and hearing his reactions, until she is whimpering too, in need, and it is so great that it is driving her mad.

"Do you want me?" she whispers, her voice rough with desire.  
Ronan nods convulsively. "Yes! Please! Take me!" he begs.  
Gamora immediately obliges, straddling his waist and slowly, painstakingly lowering herself on him.  
He is big, and she has had almost no preparation, so it is a bit slow going, but it is worth it for all the small, helpless sounds he is making and the awe on his face, and finally she manages to take him in to the hilt and starts riding him slowly and gently, but there is no need for haste, no need for force.  
She can _feel_ him deep inside her, nudging all the right places at every movement of her hips, and her pleasure is rising little by little, and below her he is nearly twisting in bed with delight, and from his lips pours a torrent of moans and gasps and words of love, and as he gets closer he loses his Trader's and the liquid syllables of High Kree resonate into her ears and it sounds beautiful, like poetry.

"I am... close..." he rasps between moans, and Gamora smiles and nods, because she is close too. She changes the angle of her hips and when she moves again, sparks of bliss start coursing through her veins.  
She watches his expression turn into one of ecstasy as she brings him to his peak for the first time in his life. His eyes screw shut and he arches off the bed as he roars and gasps his pleasure, and her last coherent thought before she loses herself too is that he is so very beautiful, and she will never be able to get enough of him.

Bliss overtakes her in turn, and when they both come down from it and lay entwined on the now-messy bed, whispering sweet nothings as they slip into the darkness of sleep, she feels blessed, so incredibly lucky that they have managed to fix what was broken in their lives and get there, where they are now.  
The only thing that could make it more perfect would be to have Peter there with them, but he will be, and they can wait a bit more.

Everything will be as it should.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains some politics, some mentions of sexism and some mild intolerance towards unconventional relationships, but mostly sex (M/M).
> 
> The threesome has been written, but there is a lot of plot to get through before we get there.
> 
> In the meantime, plot-wise, I am using some elements of comic-canon about Peter's parentage. IDK what the director and the screenwriters are going to go with, but this suited me better.
> 
> Enjoy, and please don't shout at me!

Gamora's comm goes off in the middle of the night, chiming and chirping like a confused bird.  
Ronan is closer to the bedside table. He picks it up.  
"Who is speaking?" he rasps, trying not to sound like he has just woken up, in case it is a client, but failing miserably.  
"It's me, Peter. - Star-Lord replies from the other side - I'm outside the guest house, but the concierge won't let me in. Can you pick me up?" he asks.  
"I'll be there in a minute." Ronan declares.  
Gamora mutters something, half-asleep, and then briefly surfaces to consciousness.  
"It was Star-Lord. - Ronan says, petting her hair gently - I'll be back soon." he adds, disentangling himself from her when she acquiesces.  
The Kree slips on his trousers and boots and picks up the key to the room, then slips downstairs, ignoring the pointed look the concierge, an old man this time, gives him for walking around shirtless.

Outside the air is still quite warm and smells like the flowers of the trees that line the street, sweet and fruity, a little bit cloying.  
Star-Lord is standing under one of those trees. He looks tired, but his face lights up when he sees the Kree approach him.  
A flower drops from the plant onto his head, making him look tremendously cute. Ronan closes the distance and stoops slightly to kiss him. He doesn't care if someone sees them as they embrace under the tree, reassuring each other that it is indeed real.

"Gamora is waiting for us upstairs..." he says when they break the kiss. He feels light-headed from the sheer bliss of being there in Star-Lord's arms openly, without subterfuge.  
"We shouldn't keep her waiting." the Terran acquiesces, kissing him again.  
"Gods, I can't believe this is real. - he whispers then - It is real, isn't it?" he asks, only half-joking.  
"It is. - Ronan reassures him - I love you." he adds, because it is true and he has been burning with the need to say it for far too long.  
"I love you too, bluebell. Kind of ever since I stopped wanting to shoot you in the face..." Star-Lord confesses with a lopsided grin, then yawns. He looks quite exhausted.  
"We've been waiting long enough, then. - Ronan retorts, grinning too - Come, let's get you into bed." he proposes.

Star-Lord takes his hand and walks at his side without protest, and thankfully the concierge is so flabbergasted that he doesn't even try to stop them, and finally they are all together, as it was supposed to be.  
Gamora is still asleep and the two of them try to make the least possible amount of noise as they strip.

Ronan, who was already half-naked to begin with, takes considerably less time than the Terran to finish, so he waits for Star-Lord sitting on the bed and unashamedly looks at him as he struggles with his clothes.  
He is as beautiful as Ronan remembers from the bathroom invasion and the beach, possibly more, because this time he is not distracted by guilt or shame as he lets his gaze roam all over him.  
He doesn't have to hide, he doesn't have to pretend that it doesn't affect him.  
The light of the summer moon that filters from the window makes Star-Lord look like he is made of pale light and soft shadows and... it is too perfect for words.

Star-Lord leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor and joins him on the bed. His hands cup Ronan's face tenderly and he kisses him once more, pressing himself against the Kree as much as possible.  
Warm, so warm...  
Ronan finds himself moaning into the kiss and running his hands all over Star-Lord, trying to take in more of that warmth.  
They have both grown half-hard just from that, but Ronan for himself doesn't really feel like having sex. He'd rather just lie on the bed as close as possible to the people he loves and just bask in the closeness.

"Let's get some sleep..." Star-Lord proposes softly. He looks radiant, but tired to the bone at the same time.  
Ronan acquiesces and they both crawl under the sheets.  
Gamora half-wakes again, welcoming them in, and after a bit of negotiations and turning around awkwardly, they settle down.  
Gamora is curled in Star-Lord's arms, facing him, and he is spooning against the Terran's back, an arm flung around his waist, so that he is touching Gamora too. He is surrounded by the warmth and the touch of the people he loves, and there is nothing more relaxing.  
When sleep takes him, he doesn't try to fight it. He knows he has nothing to fear from nightmares while he is with them.

Ronan wakes up with the sun a few hours later, perfectly happy and restored.  
The change in the light makes Gamora stir and in a matter of minutes, she seems wide awake.  
Only Star-Lord is still fast asleep, and doesn't even twitch when Gamora leans nearly on top of him to kiss Ronan good morning.

"He is even cuter when he is asleep, don't you think?" she whispers, looking down at the sleeping Terran.  
Ronan acquiesces.  
He gently ruffles Star-Lord's curls, peripherally noting the difference in texture between his and Gamora's hair, but the most reaction he gets is a mumbled "G'way!".

Gamora chuckles. "Peter is not a morning person. You'll have to get used to it." she advises playfully, then slides off the bed, totally nude and unashamed.  
"Come on, let's get breakfast sorted and give him a bit more time to wake." she proposes, bending at the waist to grab her clothes from the floor. Ronan stops in his tracks for a moment, lost in contemplation of her, but even if he is basically staring, she doesn't seem to mind. Upon the contrary, she smiles and bends even lower, giving him a tantalising glimpse of her womanhood.  
Ronan curses under his breath and looks away, feeling like his cheeks are burning. When he looks back her way, she has covered herself already. It's a bit of a pity.

"Don't worry, there will be more of this later, but I'm starving now. - Gamora reassures him - Aren't you hungry too?" she asks.  
"Yes, I am, actually." Ronan replies after a brief hesitation. Now that he thinks of it, he hasn't eaten anything since breakfast the day before, apart from a slice of vegetable pie he has bought at the market.  
"Let's go then. - Gamora exhorts him - You'll se how he'll wake up as soon as he smells the food..." she adds, nodding towards the still-sleeping Star-Lord.

They finish getting dressed and go downstairs, where the landlady is waiting for them with a big scowl on her face.  
"My husband told me that you brought a third guest in, last night." she accuses.  
"It is true, it was our boyfriend. - Gamora replies confrontationally - When we took the room we told you that there were going to be three of us." she adds, crossing her arms on her chest.  
The woman scowls even deeper and mutters something under her breath.  
Ronan has the distinct impression that she is passing judgement on their romantic arrangements. He doesn't like the idea.

"You told me no such thing. - the landlady insists - If you had told me, I would have written it down in the register! And I would have charged you more, rest assured!" she declares, listing extra costs like a sojourn tax, an extra charge per person, and an extra breakfast. Ronan is quite sure that hidden somewhere in there lays also a "morality tax" that the woman is charging on top of everything because their newfound three-way relationship doesn't conform to her moral standards.

Quite fed up with her whinging, Ronan grabs the rest of the cash from his winnings, counts out a more than decent amount of money, surely more than what the extra costs might amount to, and shoves it into the woman's hands.  
"This should cover all your costs and inconveniences. - he declares stiffly - Now we would like some breakfast, if you please." he adds, and the woman has no other choice than to show them into a small room to one side of the entrance, where a breakfast buffet has been laid out.  
They pick up a pair of trays and grab coffee for everyone, some fruit and some other items of food that they cannot readily identify, small, sticky biscuits, pastry and other things, and go back to their room.

True to Gamora's word, Star-Lord starts to stir as soon as the smell of food hits him.  
"You brought coffee... " he says, still sleepy, as he stretches lazily, giving them a good view of his nicely defined torso  
"You know I love you, right?" he adds with a grin.  
He slips his trousers on without bothering with underwear and pads to the small table where Ronan and Gamora have laid out their catch.  
"This is the best wake-up call ever." he sighs contentedly, letting himself fall into the chair.

They eat their breakfast chatting and laughing and drinking horrible coffee.  
"Does anyone mind if I look for some music channel on that?" Star-Lord asks after a while, pointing at the AV comm-set attached to the wall.  
"Not at all." Gamora replies. Ronan acquiesces in turn, and Star-Lord swiftly grabs the remote and starts surfing.  
They pass lots of sit-coms and sports, then a few news channels.  
"Hey, stop there!" Ronan exclaims at a certain point, thinking he has seen something.  
"Where, here?" Star-Lord asks, confused. He has gone one channel too far and has now stopped on a Skrull smashball match. It looks slightly gruesome.

"No, go back one channel. - Ronan instructs - There!" he exclaims.  
For a moment Star-Lord just blinks at the screen, uncomprehending, then the pieces of the puzzle click into place.  
"Jeez! That's the woman who fooled We'al!" he exclaims.  
Ronan nods. "Let me introduce to you Princess Helenai, heir to the throne of Spartax." he announces.  
"Damn!" Star-Lord exclaims, looking surprised and not in a good way.  
Gamora looks at her with close interest.  
"She is good-looking. - she says - Another jilted lover out for your blood?" she asks nonchalantly.  
"No! I've never seen her before in my life, and I mean, I'm sure I'd remember if I had... - Star-Lord protests - The highest nobility I have ever bedded was the duchess of Gramosia!" he adds as an explanation.

The images on the comm switch from Helenai to an older man, with a leonine mane of burnished golden curls, a trimmed beard and blue, blue eyes set in a handsome face.  
"Pama damn me for a fool!" Ronan exclaims, because he has just had an intuition, and if his hunch is correct, things might get very, very complicated.  
"What's wrong?!" Star-Lord and Gamora exclaim in almost perfect unison.

"Star-Lord, you said your father was an alien, didn't you?" Ronan asks, thinking furiously and trying to recall what exactly he had studied at the Academy about the Spartoi royal family.  
"Yeah, that's what my mum always said. He came from space, and then went back again and left me as a present to her. - he narrates - And then the Xandarians confirmed that I have non-Terran DNA. So what?"  
"And your full name is Peter Jason Quill, right?" Ronan continues.  
"Yeah, but..." Star-Lord retorts, but the Kree doesn't let him finish.  
"That is Emperor J'son of Spartax. - he says, pointing at the screen - Does he remind you of someone?" he teases.

Star-Lord stares at the man on the screen for a long moment, then his hands go to his own face, touching, checking, because it is hard to believe.  
"He looks a lot like you, Peter..." Gamora comments, quite shaken.

"You're kidding me, right? - Star-Lord explodes, turning towards Ronan - You are not really telling me that... that guy is my dad?!" he adds.  
"We cannot be certain without a proper forensic test, of course, but the timing seems quite right." Ronan replies, using the calm, reasonable tone that his teachers at the Academy had drilled into him as the best to deal with panicky victims or witnesses.  
"If I remember correctly, prince J'son was involved in some sort of court scandal and exiled from Spartax some thirty, thirty-five years ago. - he continues - He disappeared for a while, no one could figure out where he was, then suddenly reappeared on Spartax about a year after, cleared his name and was reinstated as heir to the throne. How old are you, Star-Lord?" he asks.  
"I... thirty-three." the Terran replies.  
"Right, so about thirty-odd years ago, this man vanishes, disappears from the face of the Universe, and almost straight afterwards you are born on an isolated, backwater planet from an allegedly alien father. - Ronan sums up - The likenness is quite impressive, I must say..." he comments, glancing back at the screen, where the Emperor is still doing some sort of proclaim. J'son looks obviously older, and also harsher and grimmer, but anyone who saw them together would immediately peg them for father and son.

"Do you really think that I am... A prince? Me?" Star-Lord protests, pointing at his chest.  
"I'd say that the probabilities are in your favour. And even if you are not, you are still a credible decoy. - Ronan replies - That explains why princess Helenai is after your blood." he concludes.  
"It doesn't to me. - Gamora intervenes - Even if this was true, Peter is still illegitimate, he can't have a very strong claim on the throne." she objects.  
"Actually, he might. - Ronan replies - Spartoi society is very male-dominated, but J'son has no living sons, that he knows of, so Helenai will eventually be the first Emperess ever to sit on the throne of Spartax. Many oppose this and her marriage to Gladiator of Shi'ar. "  
"I bet the chauvinists think that, since he is a man, he'll rule in her place." Gamora huffs.  
"Precisely. - Ronan confirms - So you understand that if any male heir showed up in these circumstances, he would have the support of large swathes of population and might destabilise the whole Empire, plunging it into civil war."  
"And Peter is not just anyone. - Gamora chimes in - You are a war hero, the saviour of Xandar..." she tells Star-Lord.

"This is so not helping, love! - Star-Lord protests - I get it, I am a menace to her claim, and she would very much like to do the whole "Man in the Iron Mask" gig on me, even if I have no interest in reigning or ruling or whatever. So, what do we do now?" he asks.  
Ronan frowns at the strange cultural reference, but it doesn't seem the right time and place to ask for explanations.  
"I am not sure. Maybe you should contact her, somehow, and explain her the situation. - he proposes - Maybe even agree to support her in public... yes, that might solve it." he adds.

"That's not a bad plan! And it didn't involve smashing any heads! You're getting better!" Star-Lord teases, trying to defuse the tension. Ronan sighs and rolls his eyes. The jokes about smashed heads and big hammers are starting to grow old.

"I know it's a bit indelicate to mention him, but the guy we were banging yesterday, didn't he work at the palace?" Star-Lord asks Gamora.  
She nods. "He is some sort of secretary. - she replies - I'll see if he can help us." she offers, and stands to leave.  
"You're going now?" Star-Lord asks.  
Gamora nods, checking her weapons.  
"I'll swing by the Milano first and tell the guys to stay put. - she replies - Then I'll find Yo-laus."  
"Well, wait, we are coming with you." both Ronan and Star-Lord protest.  
"You are not. - the assassin retorts - The room is paid for until midday. Stay put. Enjoy this while you can." she instructs.  
Ronan and Star-Lord exchange a rapid, embarassed glance. It's not like they wouldn't want to, but...

"I am talking seriously, guys. In the off-chance that Helenai's people have already got wind that we are here, the first place they will look for you is the Milano. - she explains - Here, you are less likely to be found, and Ronan will watch your back while I am away." she adds, turning to Star-Lord.  
If she leaves them there alone, the Terran's back won't be the only thing he'll be watching, Ronan thinks, stifling an inappropriate giggle.

"Do you want us to move to another bolt-hole after twelve?" he asks instead, hanging to his focus for dear life.  
"Have you still got any cash left?" Gamora asks.  
Ronan nods. "Enough for a couple of days in a decent place. - he replies, patting the wad of cash in his pocket - Longer in a dump."  
"I have some cash too. Non-traceable, from the last job." Star-Lord adds.  
Gamora thinks about it for a moment.

"I'll try to get a meeting first, then we'll figure out what to do next. - she decides ultimately - Let's keep comm contact in case things go south. I'll call you around twelve. Call me and make a run for it if you see anything suspicious, alright?" she instructs.  
"We can take care of ourselves." Star-Lord protests.  
Gamora kisses him long and hard, then does the same to Ronan, silencing their protests.  
"I know. - she says - But I don't want to lose you. I want us to have lots and lots more mornings like this..." she adds.  
"We'll take care, you have my word." Ronan promises, taking her into his arms for a brief moment.  
"I know. I trust you two. - she declares - I'd better go." she adds in a moment and then, with one last brief kiss, disappears out of the room.

"We're stranded, bluebell..." Star-Lord comments after a moment.  
"Her plan _is_ sensible." Ronan points out.  
"I know... it's just. Well, I don't want her to be in danger. - the Terran retorts - And I am not very good at waiting either. What should we do now?" he asks, giving him a sidelong glance.  
"I don't know. - Ronan replies, seeing the bait but deciding to tease Star-Lord, instead - Watch some more CommVid?" he proposes, struggling to keep his face straight.  
Star-Lord's dejected expression is priceless, and he can't help but start laughing heartily.

"You were kidding me!" Star-Lord exclaims, indignant.  
"And you fell for it." Ronan comments smugly.  
Star-Lord pounces. The chair clatters to the ground and they both end up on the floor, kissing like they can't get enough of each other.  
Ronan is lying on his back and Star-Lord climbs on top of him. He can feel his hardness pressed against him once more, and this time he knows that they won't have to stop.

"What do you really want to do, bluebell?" Star-Lord rasps as he grinds his own hardness against Ronan's.  
"I want to get rid of these bloody clothes. I want to feel you..." the Kree replies, a tiny bit desperate already.  
Star-Lord smiles and grinds himself harder, making him groan in pleasure.  
"And then?" he whispers, mouthing his partner's neck.  
"And then I want to lay in that bed with you..." Ronan continues.  
It is not shame that makes him reticent, is that it is already feeling so good... he wants to make it last. Plus Star-Lord is getting quite desperate himself, and he likes the idea.

The Terran bites his neck, however, and again he feels that mixture of pleasure and pain and loss of control... it gets to him, sending flashes of delight deep into him.  
He cries out. Suddenly playing with Star-Lord doesn't seem as attractive as just submitting would be.

"And then what, bluebell?" Star-Lord insists, grinding against him.  
Ronan has a short flashback to when he saw him and Gamora and with that man. He recalls how Star-Lord was thrusting into him, and how much the man seemed to enjoy it, and a shiver of delight courses through him.  
He wants that. He _needs_ it.

"And then I want you to take me... - he gasps - Like... like you were doing with that man..." he adds, hoping that it is not too vague, and that Star-Lord won't make him spell it out.  
He knows the technical terms, but he is reluctant to say them, not because he is ashamed of what he wants, far from it, but because they sound so very _vulgar_ for something so heavenly.  
"Please..." he adds in a whimper.

Star-Lord curses under his breath and slips his hands under the Kree's hoodie and shirt, frantically trying to bunch them up and tug them off.  
Ronan manges to partially sit up and help him, wriggling free of his clothes and letting them fall to the floor.  
Star-Lord presses himself as close as he can to him, drowning him in warmth.  
Somehow they manage to stand, even as they try to tug each other's trousers off, and when the Terran backs him towards the bed he does not resist.

They end up on the bed, naked, without quite knowing how they got there.  
Everything is confused in a haze of wonderful sensations, of warmth and closeness, of kisses and tentative touches. Well, not so tentative from Star-Lord's part...  
The Terran seems to know all the spots that make him gasp and shudder, and uses them to perfection, driving him closer and closer to begging for more.

He is going to say the words when Star-Lord's hand finally wraps around his cock, starting to stroke him.  
His hands are bigger and rougher than Gamora's and his touch is harder, more demanding and he absolutely loves it.

His own hands slide down Star-Lord's body, pausing just before their target. Ronan manages a moment of lucidity and looks at Star-Lord's face, a question on his lips.  
"Yes, please!" Star-Lord exclaims, before he can even speak up.  
His face is flushed red and his eyes are darkened with desire. He is the most beautiful thing that Ronan has ever seen.

He lets his hands slide the last bit and the sound the Terran makes when he starts exploring him nearly makes him spill himself on the spot.  
Hanging to self-control for dear life, he forces himself to breathe evenly and focus on what he is feeling under his fingertips, on the contrast between the flushed, silken skin and the steely hardness underneath, on the fascinating discovery of the nest of coarse dark golden curls growing around the base of the Terran's cock.  
Tentatively, he starts to mimic what Star-Lord is doing to him and he can feel his parter start to falter and halt. He must be doing it right, he thinks smugly.

And then Star-Lord slaps his manhood from side to side with his open palm and he nearly blacks out from the sheer intensity of the sensation. His hands fly to the Terran's shoulders for support. He needs something solid to hold on to, or he'll fall apart.  
"Good?" Star-Lord growls into his ear.  
Ronan can hardly speak, but he nods frantically.  
"Want more?" the Terran asks, his tone sultry and assured. Ronan pulls him into a breathless kiss, tangling his fingers into his hair.  
"Please, Star-Lord! Please!" he says, peppering his jaw and neck with kisses and gentle nips, but the only result he gets is to make him pull back with a slight frown.  
"My name is Peter. Say it." he orders.  
Ronan blinks, trying to clear his head just a fraction.  
"Peter..." he whispers, rolling his name on his tongue as if he is trying to taste it.  
Star-Lord, no, _Peter_ smiles gently.  
"And then...?" he suggests encouragingly.  
"Please, Peter..." Ronan tries again, tentatively.  
Another pleased smile.  
"This is more like it." Peter purrs and suddenly, without warning, his hand moves and slaps him even harder than before.

Ronan cries out and Peter does it again, and again and again.  
He loses count of how many times, lost in the feeling, in that undescribable mix of sharp pleasure and subtle pain. It sings through his veins and spills from his lips in desperate cries and pleas. He knows he is babbling in the most undignified manner, cursing, and begging, and professing his love, but he can't control it, and to be honest, he wouldn't want to even if he could.

When Peter stops, he is shuddering uncontrollably. His fingers must have left bruises where they were gripping the Terran's shoulders, but he doesn't seem to care.  
"You are amazing..." Peter whispers, gently petting him and helping him calm down at least a bit.  
He leans out towards the floor at the side of the bed, where is jacket is lying, and quickly rummages in its pockets.  
When he leans back into the Kree's arms there is a small bottle of some viscous liquid in his hands. Ronan knows what it means, and feels himself squirming in delight at the perspective.

Peter looks at him questioningly and this time it is his turn to say yes before he can even speak.  
"Turn around for me then." Peter whispers.  
Ronan obliges immediately, turning onto his front and spreading his legs. He can feel no shame for that, only anticipation.

Peter's hands caress and knead his back and sides, prolonging the wait. His fingers travel down the length of his back, sending shivers through him then leave his skin, only to reappear at his ankles. They trace upwards slowly, so very slowly, making him squirm in delight and impatience, until, finally, they reach the cleft between his buttocks, gliding there with the gentlest touch. Ronan bites back a curse nonetheless.

He hears a chuckle at his back and then Peter grabs a handful of his ass with each hand and spreads him further. Something wet and squirming probes against his entrance. It feels strange and heavenly and he bites his lip and balls his hands into the bedsheets to prevent himself from reacting too strongly to it. He wants it to last, but he can't help the way his back arches and the strangled moan that escapes him. It is too good.

His eyes are closed and his face is pressed into the bed. He doesn't dare turning to look, but he feels when something cool and oily starts dripping onto his cleft and down to his balls. Clever fingers start to rub the oil into his skin, massaging and pressing _there_ , more and more insistent, and he can barely restrain himself from pressing back into his touch. This is not just about him, and if his partner wants to take his time, because maybe he is enjoying himself doing those things to him, then he'll wait. He has waited so very long for this, he can give Peter a few minutes more, he tells himself.

Finally Peter's finger breaches him.  
It burns slightly, not quite with pain but almost there, and at the same time it feels better than almost anything he's ever felt before, and when he forces himself to relax around the intrusion, the discomfort fades almost immediately, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

"Oh, __mery__! - he exclaims, starting to revert to High Kree - It feels..."  
"You've seen nothing yet, bluebell..." Peter purrs, slipping another finger in.  
It is sudden and Ronan feels himself tensing up once more, and the pain returns, making him instinctively try to pull away with a hiss.

"Sorry... I'm sorry..." Peter whispers, distracting him by planting sweet, soft kisses along his spine.  
His free hand slips down, to tease his inner tighs and then reaches around his body, to stroke him gently in time with the pull and push of his fingers inside him. Under that double onslaught, he cannot tell what feels better. The only thing he knows is that he cannot get enough of it, he wants more and desperately try to find some leverage to push back against his partner, but Peter is all but lying on top of him... and then suddenly he is not and Ronan can rise to his hands and knees and help Peter take him apart.

Nimble fingers stretch him, scissoring and curling inside him, hitting one spot that makes stars appear under his closed eyelids and he is moaning with every touch, dignity all but forgotten, so lost in the feeling that when Peter slips a third finger in, he doesn't feel any pain. He just wants it, he wants him.

"Pama have mercy, Peter! Do it! Just do it! Please..." he exclaims. He promised to himself that he would wait, but he can't wait any longer. He is already close and he wants to come with Peter inside him.  
"I love to hear you say please..." the Terran purrs and curls his fingers once more, making him gasp in delight once more before withdrawing.  
Ronan hears the bottle of oil being uncorked again and this time he turns, just in time to watch Peter apply more oil to his manhood with slow, lazy strokes.  
A short, whispered prayer escapes his lips, because, damn, for all the mistakes he made, he knows doesn't deserve this, but he is so very grateful for having it, for having Peter, and Gamora, for having a second chance at love and friendship.

Peter lines up his hips with Ronan's and starts to press in, and it becomes incredibly hard to think straight.  
It catches a bit on the way in, and it burns uncomfortably, but Ronan bites his lip to prevent himself from making noise and holds out, willing himself not to fight against it, but just to breathe, in and out, in and out... Gradually the discomfort vanishes and Peter slips inside him fully, scalding hot, and thick, and throbbing. He feels stretched to the limit, and it feels amazingly intimate and intense.

"Gods, I've wanted this for so long..." Peter sighs, pressing his forehead against the Kree's shoulders.  
Ronan turns his head and twists, and, somehow, they end up kissing. The shift in position presses Peter's cock against some hidden place inside him and he can't help but whimper into the kiss.  
"Move! Please, move for me, Peter..." he gasps, pleasure coursing through his veins like the headiest battle-rush.  
"Oh, gods!" Peter growls, and pulls out almost completely before thrusting back in hard, his hands scrabbling on the Kree's hip and shoulder to keep that sharp, delightful angle.  
Ronan cries out, over and over in time with his hard, unforgiving thrusts, lost to anything that is not Peter, the weight of him at his back, his gasping breaths, his warmth.

"I love you, Peter Quill... - he gasps, balling his fists in the bedsheets so hard that he fears he is going to tear them - You make me feel... oh, Pama! you make me feel alive..." he says through gritted teeth as the Terran's hand reaches for his cock again. Sex definitely loosens his tongue, but like Gamora the night before, Peter doesn't seem to mind. If anything, his thrusts become harder and more frantic.  
Probably he'll have some trouble sitting down later, but he finds the idea not troubling at all. He likes carrying Peter's marks on himself.

"I am yours... - he gasps - Oh, Peter, I'm so close..." he confesses, feeling something shift inside him.  
Peter growls and pulls away, leaving him gasping and trembling, bereft of his warmth. He can be a cruel master, Ronan thinks for a moment.

"Turn! - Peter orders - On your back!" he says, pushing the Kree to the bed so that he is looking up at him.  
They kiss again, almost trying to devour each other, and Ronan feels that Peter is trembling too from how close he is to his own peak.  
"Why did you stop?" he asks between kisses.  
"Because I want to watch you as you fall apart..." the Terran replies, lining himself up once more and sinking into him to the hilt in one smooth, powerful push.  
Ronan arches on the bed and wraps his legs around Peter's waist. His mouth falls open, but he is too breathless to even cry out.  
"Oh, it's so good... __mery__ , I..." he gasps when Peter relents and he regains some breath, but the respite was illusory. His partner has stopped just to lift his legs over his shoulders, making the angle even sharper, and when he starts thrusting again Ronan knows that this will be it. He has no chance of resisting.  
"I'm not going to last a moment, like this..." he manages to warn.  
"Don't fight it... - Peter grunts, pausing for breath - Just let go. I'll be right behind you..." he promises, and there is so much heat, and so much love in his words and on his face...  
Peter starts moving again, and Ronan can feel his climax approaching like a wave and this time there is no turning back. One thrust, and one more, and it rolls him right over, making him almost black out as his whole body clenches and he spills all over himself.  
Peter roars in pleasure, and he surfaces enough to see him arch, muscles tense all over his frame and head thrown back, as he spills inside him, and he is beautiful, so beautiful... his prince, his master, his best friend... his lover now... his...  
He wishes that there was a way of freezing that moment in time and keeping it intact forever.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter contains some mild mentions of sex (M/M), some language, some bad attempts at humour and some speciesism.
> 
> Apart from that, it is quite plot-heavy.

Later, they lie in each other's arms for who knows how long, trying to catch their breath.  
Ronan can find no words to describe the peace and contentedness that fill him. He lets his fingers slide gently over Peter's sleepy, smiling face, trying to map its every detail and memorise it. Peter closes his eyes and basks into his touch, snuggling closer.

Their breathless quiet doesn't last very long, though. They have been waiting for this for far too long and their first joining has taken off the edge, but by no means extinguished their need, and soon chaste, soft touches become more insistent and daring. They stumble to the shower, to clean up before a second round, and end up having it right there, under the warm spray of water, grinding against each other and stroking each other to completion.

Before they know, it is midday. When they leave the guest house, the landlady glares at them with evident disapproval. Ronan thinks that she will try to charge them some other extra for having made love until late in the morning, but she keeps quiet, expressing her despise with her eyes only.  
Gamora hasn't contacted them yet, so they migrate to a small restaurant under an archway at the margin of the market. After all their... energetic activities, Ronan is feeling quite hungry. They get a flatbread full of meat, vegetables and a strange white-ish spicy sauce each and sit down near the window, watching out for potential trouble.  
Ronan can see that Peter is quite worried about Gamora's delay in contacting them, an to be honest, he is worried too, but still tries to reassure him and distract him.  
"Give her a bit more time, she might be negotiating with that man still." he says, slightly disturbed by the involvement of the stranger. He knows that it is a good strategy and that he has nothing to be jealous about, but still... he just doesn't like the man, even if he doesn't know him.

Peter acquiesces and tries to keep calm, but as another hour passes with no sign of Gamora or any of the others (their comms ring and ring and no one replies), there is no way they can stay put any longer. They have to do something.

They sneak back to the Milano, even if they know that tactically it is not the smartest idea. They have no other option, short of barging into the Imperial Palace and demanding an audience with princess Helenai, which would be even more stupid and suicidal. Ronan curses against his lack of forethought for having left his _labyrs_ on the ship. He has the impression that he will need it. He'll have to make do, he thinks.

In the end, he does not.  
As soon as they arrive at the Milano, they get surrounded by a rather numerous detail of Spartoi security officers armed with plasma rifles, whose CO informs him and Peter that they are under arrest.  
Ronan tenses up for a fight. Their chances are relatively poor, but they would improve if he could just snap the CO's neck and steal his rifle before the rest of them realise the danger. He takes a deep, steadying breath and starts to let himself slip into a _sia_ -trance state.  
Peter's fingers slide against the inside of his wrist, startling him out of his concentration.  
"Not now, bluebell... Keep it for later." the Terran whispers in Kree.

"Alright, we surrender. No one needs to get hurt. - he adds in a much louder voice and in Trader's, turning to the guards - If you could just lead us to princess Helenai, I am sure we can fix this in no time." he adds, looking his most honest and helpful. He is a lovable scoundrel, that he is.  
"You are not in the position to make any demands." the CO says, as it was obvious, then barks something in Spartoi to his underlings.  
He and Peter get clapped in irons, which was quite obvious too, and led away, into the darkened rear compartment of a police vehicle.  
"I hope you do have a plan, Peter." Ronan comments quietly.  
"Don't worry, bluebell, I always do." the Terran replies.

The guards shove them in a cell, somewhere in the city, he thinks. He has been paying attention to the twists and turns of the vehicle's progress and to the timings. They are most likely still in Lakedaimon, and not very far from the center of the city. He wishes he had spent more time memorising the city plan. If he had, he'd have a better estimate of their position the darkness of the police vehicle and the hoods they have shoved on their heads to lead them to the cell, even the mild light of the cell blinds him for a moment, adding to his disorientation  
"Hey guys! We thought you'd never come!" a voice greets them with sarcasm. It is Rocket. He never thought he would say it, but he is relieved to hear the Raccoon's voice.  
Something launches itself at him.  
"I am Groot!" the plant-child exclaims in relief, trying to wrap himself around Ronan and Peter at the same time, very nearly making them stumble in his desperate need for reassurance.  
"It's alright, little one. - Peter says softly - We're good."Ronan blinks and manages to look around. Rocket and Groot, Drax, and Gamora, the latter two slightly worse for the wear, but still alive, still whole. They are all there. He feels like slumping to the floor in relief, except that he notices an extra person, sitting in a corner in dejection.  
A Spartoi, with a golden tan and dark hair."What is he doing here, exactly?" Ronan asks, turning towards Gamora.  
"They caught us together. - she replies with a shrug - I think they were keeping him under surveillance after, well..." she explains, waving a hand in lieu of completing the sentence.  
"That is unfortunate." Ronan comments ruefully. That also meant that they had been watching the ship since the day before.  
Thankfully the Spartoi guards didn't follow them to the guest-house. Getting slapped in cell with a man who had lain with his lovers was embarrassing enough, but getting arrested during intimate activities would have been much worse."That is an understatement if I have ever heard one, fellow! - the Spartoi comments - The sex was amazing, but I would have declined if I knew you were terrorists!" he protests.  
"Ah, that's what they are saying! Well, it is not true. - Peter protests - None of us has committed any acts of terrorism in the last year, at least!" he adds.  
"Make it a year an a half." Gamora corrects him.  
"A year, seven months and two days, by the Standard Galactic Calendar." Ronan chimes in, disentangling himself from Groot.  
Rocket guffaws without restraint.  
"You've been counting the days!" he exclaims, between bouts of laughter.  
Ronan blushes and shrugs.  
"I was hoping for an anniversary cake. Not cooked by you, though." he retorts sarcastically.  
"I will cook it, if it is so important for you, comrade." Drax intervenes, obviously missing the sarcasm. He really means it too, and Ronan doesn't feel it in him to correct him.  
"Damn right, Drax! - Peter comments, winking and wrapping an arm around Ronan's shoulders - We should have done that at the proper time. I don't know how we could have forgotten it!" he adds.  
"I think we were a bit busy kicking butts on Gramosia." Rocket offers.  
"I am Groot." Groot interjects. Of course he had remembered. He is a very caring being."You are all crazy! - the Spartoi exclaims - And you are... or were terrorists! Ah, this will teach me to pick up hot _barbaroi_ couples in a tavern!" he laments.  
"Actually, I am the only one who has ever been accused of terrorism." Ronan corrects. Admitting one's fault is the first step to atonement, they say.  
"That's not true. I have been too." Gamora protest.  
"No, not really. - Ronan objects - I have read your rap sheet and it said multiple counts of murder and grievous bodily harm, but no terrorism." he explains.  
Gamora's expression flits between relief and disappointment. "Ah, well, if it is so..." she comments quietly.  
He and Peter sit down on the floor next to her, sandwiching her in between them. That should tell the Spartoi everything he needs to stranger squeals a little, backing away even farther and crossing his arms on his chest.  
"You are nothing but a bunch of criminals!" he accuses.  
"Nah, we're bounty hunters. - Rocket retorts - Seriously guys, did you really pick up this wet blanket?" he adds, turning towards Peter.  
The Terran shrugs, but thankfully does not comment.  
"So when you three disappeared last night, it wasn't to screw like there was no tomorrow?!" Rocket insists, pointing at where he, Ronan and Gamora are sitting.  
Ronan feels like he could die in embarrassment.  
"It must have been, comrade. They have been courting for a while." Drax explains, showing a remarkable amount of insight and making everything much worse all at the same time."So you were also cheating on your boyfriend!" the Spartoi exclaims in disapproval, finishing it off with a string of mutterings in his own language.  
"I wasn't their boyfriend at the time." Ronan feels compelled to add, in an unwarranted attempt to defend Peter and Gamora's virtue.  
"But I bet you are now! - Rocket butts in - You finally got laid! We should have a party, when we get out of here."  
Mortified doesn't quite cover how Ronan is feeling now. Rocket has the knack for saying the wrong thing at the right time and between him and Drax they are making the whole experience a right ordeal."Alright, people! Let's can this for the moment!" Peter instructs, a bit desperate. For once, he looks as embarrassed as Ronan feels.  
"Seriously, this is not the right moment to discuss our sex life!" he continues, and as if on cue, the door to the cell opens, letting in a detail of Spartoi guards. A force-field activates across the cell, hemming them in and providing a nice antechamber for the guards to stand in safely.  
Ronan would bet that it is either designed to block low-speed impacts only or one-way. If the guards decide to shoot them with those plasma rifles, the force-field will not block the bolts. Now he understands how the proverbial fish must feel in that bloody barrel...The guards part in front of the door, and in waltzes none other than princess Helenai, tailed by a tall, purple-skinned Shi'ar man and a graceful Shi'ar girl, prince Gladiator and princess Vesta, no doubt.  
"What are they doing on Spartax?" Ronan muses to himself.  
The Guardians have stopped bickering and are standing, ready to do whatever it takes to get out of there alive. Only the unpleasant Spartoi man is still curled on the newcomers take a long, assessing look at the six of them, and finally princess Vesta speaks.  
"I have to say, good-sister, they don't look so menacing as you told us. - she comments airily - Those two are even rather cute." she adds, waving a hand in Rocket and Groot's direction.  
Groot is obviously delighted by the attention and waves his upper branches in salute with an enthusiastic "I am Groot!", much to Rocket's exasperation.

"Don't let the appearances deceive you, sister. - prince Gladiator interjects - That man is Ronan, formerly Supreme Commander of the Accusers, a man even I wouldn't want to meet in battle, and that is Gamora, one of Thanos' assassins." he points out.

Ronan cannot help but grin at the idea that the proud prince if Shi'ar is scared of him.  
"Hey! I'm dangerous too!" Rocket protests, and Ronan can distinctly hear Peter hit his forehead with his palm.  
"Thanks, Rocket, really!" he hisses."You keep interesting companies, brother." Helenai finally spits, loading the word with as much spite as she can. Her blue eyes, so bright against her dark skin, bore into Peter's face.  
Peter gives her a goofy grin.  
"They drive me around the bend, but at least I never get bored." he replies irreverently.  
"Is that your sister?!" both Rocket and Drax exclaim at the same time.  
Peter nods, much to Helenai's chagrin. "Half-sister. I just figured out this morning. - he explains - Actually, Ronan figured out." he adds with a nod in the Kree's direction.  
"You lie smoothly, half-breed. You claim you didn't know, and yet you are here, on Spartax." she declares haughtily.  
"We wouldn't be here if someone had not sent mercs after my hide. - Peter retorts - I tend to take it personally when people try to kill me." he adds with a hard glint in his eyes."Their mission was not to kill you, but to take you in custody. - she replies with no emotion - Even half-breed, and illegitimate as you are, you could be a threat to my claim and to the peace in this quadrant." she explains disdainfully.  
Ronan feels himself bristle at her words, but Peter lays a hand on his arm and squeezes gently, signalling for him to keep quiet.  
"Gods, I am moved by your brotherly love, sis... - the Terran comments - You are pissing at the wrong tree, though. I can't care less about your throne. I don't want to be king. I would be totally pants at it! I can barely manage our little bounty-hunting outfit!" he explains.  
"That's true. - Rocket intervenes - Him and book-keeping don't agree. Do you remember when we had to ration even the toilet paper for nearly a month because we had run out of money, last year?" he adds cheerfully.  
There is a general murmur. Of course they do. It is likely that they will never be able to forget.  
"Hey! That was a one-off mistake!" Peter protests, and Gladiator look genuinely baffled and quite speechless. Ronan stifles a chuckle. They'd better get used to the feeling.  
Princess Vesta, instead, is giggling quietly and obviously finds the whole situation hilarious.  
"Enough! - Helenai thunders - I don't believe you! You are a thief, a scoundrel, a lowly mercenary..."  
"I might be, but at least I am honest about it, and, what's more, I like my freedom. - Peter chimes in - I want to spend my good-for-nothing life going on adventures, not sitting on an uncomfortable chair looking serious. I just wanted to know who was after my blood. Now I know, and if you agree to leave me the fuck alone, I'll stop inconveniencing you with my lowly presence in no time. We have places to be, asses to kick... You know, lowly mercs-y things..." he explains, but his cheerful façade is starting to gives him a perplexed look.  
"You don't want to claim your heritage?" she asks.  
"Nope. I wouldn't know what to say to our father apart that he was a total asshole to leave my mum alone with a kid in Middle-of-Nowhere, Texas. - he replies - I imagine he was busy being an Emperor and stuff, but he had a frikkin' spaceship, and he knew his way, so he could have at least checked in us from time to time. But no. Not once, not even when my mum was dying of cancer. I suppose he didn't give a shit about us." he says sharply.  
Ronan discreetly lays a hand on the small of his back and Gamora presses closer too. Consciously or not, all the Guardians are closing in around Peter, showing him their support. They know that this is Peter's weak spot and those people have managed to hit hard and unapologetically."It is fair enough, because I don't give a shit about him either. I already have a father, and his name is Yondu Udonta, captain of the Ravagers. - Peter declares with open hostility, his voice rising in volume and pitch - He might be a lowly merc, and a total dick at times, and not my biological father, but he raised me. He was there when I needed him." he nearly yells, and, at this point in their relationship, Ronan knows that he is on the verge of breaking down. He sees it in the liquid shine of his eyes, in the clenching of his fists, hears it in the brittle, angry sound of his voice and the harsh rythm of his recoils a little, looking uncomfortable, and Ronan feels like he wants to hit both her and Gladiator, for standing there with their sanctimonius expressions and looking down on Peter without knowing the first thing about him, for calling him half-breed and bastard and trying to humiliate him. He doesn't deserve this."Oh, by the God and the Goddess, good-sister, stop this! - Vesta explodes, looking on the verge of tears as well - He is saying the truth! It is not him! It is not them! We got the wrong people!" she wails, hiding her face in her hands.  
"The wrong people for what?" Rocket asks. He is very upset too, his fangs are showing and his fur is standing on end on his neck.  
Helenai hesitates, looking first at her intended and then at Vesta, then sighs.  
"We have received intelligence about a conspiracy to prevent our marriage. - she reveals - We were informed that it was your doing." she adds.  
"It would have stood to reason if you had wanted to take the throne for yourself." Gladiator adds in her support.  
"But he doesn't. I can feel it." Vesta protests. Is she some sort of sensitive, Ronan asks himself."She is right. - Peter declares, wiping his face with the back of his hand - Marry, have kids, reign. I can't care less! Gods, I have never been within two light-years from here before yesterday... Do you need a written statement to get the message that I don't give a fuck about whatever right I might have to the throne?!" he shouts, and with that he breaks down, starting to wraps his arms around Peter and lets him sob into the collar of his jumper. He remembers what he had said about being verbally abused and bullied because he was the son of an unmarried woman, about how his Terran relatives didn't support him but blamed him, labelled him a problem child and foretold for him a future of crime and destitution, all for a sin not his own.  
To have those righteous royal scions re-enact the whole farce must be unbearable. It is no surprise that he has broken down, but it does not matter, because him, Gamora and the Guardians are there to shore him up and protect him.  
Ronan stares down both Helenai and Gladiator, daring them to say anything, to belittle Peter for his pain. He'll find a way of getting through that force-field and break their faces if they do, no matter how."I... I just want this to end. I can't deal with it... - Peter sobs and Gamora hugs him from behind, plastering herself against his back - I thought I could, but I can't... I just can't. It's... it's too much. I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." he adds, as if he had to justify himself.  
"It's not your fault, _meri_. You didn't do anything wrong." Ronan whispers, petting his hair to calm him down and try to prevent himself from exploding at the same time."You have no proof of any wrongdoing on his part, just vague hearsay. You are going to release us from this bloody pen." he declares in his coldest, angriest tone, turning towards Helenai and the Shi'ar.  
"I had a duty of precaution to protect my birthright and the nascent peace between my people and the Shi'ar." the princess protests.  
"You would have protected it better had you investigated your sources more thoroughly instead of reacting in panic!" Ronan growls, seeing red."They nearly killed Gladiator! - Helenai retorts, equally angrily - What was I supposed to do?! I want this war to end! I want to marry the man I love! I wasn't going to let a stranger take it all away just because he had the right sort of genitalia!" she shouts, and when Gladiator puts an arm around her shoulders, she too breaks down and buries her face against his chest, shoulders shaking with sobs.  
Ronan loses a bit of his steam upon seeing it. He has been trained to think rationally and strive to be always impartial, but, now that Peter is hurting, it is quite hard to see the Spartoi princess' reasons. It would be easy to be self-righteous and impulsive."I am Groot! I am Groot! I am Groot!" Little Groot chimes in, his high, argentine voice cutting through the argument, and unsurprisingly, he is the only one who has conserved goodwill and perspective.  
"You are right, Groot, it would be a solution." Gamora admits with a sigh.  
"What did the plant say?" Gladiator asks.  
"He has said that we should all sit down and talk, instead of shouting. - Rocket explains - I am all for shouting though, because you two are a right royal couple of arseholes, pun fully intended." he adds viciously.  
"Rocket!" Gamora chides, but only half-heartedly."I am Groot!" Groot insists, crossing his branches over his trunk and tapping a root on the floor, mildly irritated at having his argument derailed.  
"That too, comrade. - Drax intervenes, nodding in agreement - He hypothesizes that the real culprit might have planted false rumors to point you towards Star-Lord. Thus, he would have managed to distract you from his trail." he explains, as if it was natural. Among the Guardians, Drax took the longest to start understanding Groot, but now he captures nuances like only Rocket can do, while the rest of them usually grasp only the general gist of his utterances."I am Groot!" the plant-child concludes.  
Rocket sighs. "Why do you always have to be so sensible, buddy? - he asks, shaking his head with a rueful smile - Of course it would help to compare notes! I want to find out whose arse I'm going to have to bust for organising this ungodly mess!" he adds.

"Yes, please, brother! Please, good-sister! - Vesta chimes in, wiping tears from her face - Let's sit down together and talk without haste. I sense a great evil behind all of this, someone who would love nothing better than to turn the residual hostility between our peoples into deeply entrenched hate, and to watch us destruct each other until no one is left standing and death reigns above all." she explains, her eyes wide and unfocused, as if she is seeing something beyond what everyone else could perceive.

She turns that otherworldly gaze towards Ronan and the Kree has the impression that she is trying to tell him something, to make him understand some fundamental truth that she has glimpsed.

Ronan cannot help but think back on the history of his own people. There were attempts at peace, during the first years of the war with Xandar. Embassies had been exchanged, progress had been made. A truce had even been agreed upon, but then the Kree representatives had been assassinated on Xandar Prime, and some Xandarian prisoners had been killed in their cells on Hala by rogue agents, and retaliations had escalated into higher and higher levels of cruelty and body count, and the war had continued on for three generations and nearly ended with the total destruction of Xandar by his Vesta trying to tell him that their war too had been engineered by an external agency?  
That someone has been sitting to the side and watching his people and the Xandarians kill each other for nearly a century like it was a pleasant show? That all the death and destruction, that all the pain and the loss, on both sides, can be laid at someone's feet? That someone could be accused and made to pay for all of that?Ronan looks at Gamora over Peter's head, and somehow she understands. Who is the one being in this corner of the Universe that above all desires nothingness and revels in destruction, who wishes for Death to reign on everything that exists?  
"Thanos..." Gamora whispers, her eyes wide in realisation.  
"Yes, Thanos." Ronan confirms. Instigator of all evil, corrupter of civilisations, father of wars. Now it all makes can imagine that mad tyrant sitting on his throne, pushing and tweaking, influencing or coercing someone here and someone there, twisting minds, corrupting hearts, engineering large-scale slaughter for his pleasure.  
How many more wars did he have a hand in? How many billions of deaths can be laid at his door?Well, no more, Ronan declares. Not a single life more on Spartax or Shi'ar, not one in the whole Universe.  
Now their self-imposed mission is ever more vital.  
Thanos has to be stopped once and for all, made to finally meet what he desires most.  
It will not immediately cure the Universe from all evil, but it will be a start. It would be a breath of freedom for all, an occasion to set enimities aside and to make a fresh start.  
"You are going to die by the edge of Keenblade, you purple-skinned necrophile." Ronan vows quietly.


End file.
